Page 8 of The Labor Date
I have a delicate stomach, and those treats were definitely not approved by my nutritionist.
I hated to do that to her, and sure I could have made it to the litter box if I tried, but no way was I going to let Jerk-face think he can buy my love with treats.
She needs to be warned about the type of man he is who would do that to a sweet cat like me.
Besides, it couldn’t have been more perfect timing as I had to do something. From my perch at the window overlooking the pool, I could tell by the way Jerk-face rubbed her feet that he was wanting her.
So, her bed became my litter box. I am not sorry.
Now they both stand there gawking at the soiled scene before them.
I glare. Yeah, that’s right, Jerk-face. Behold the master at work. As your superior on this planet, I’ve just foiled your dinner plans. Now Holly will be washing her bed linens all night long instead of spending time with you.
Cough. Cough.
I throw those in for good measure. Along with sad, round eyes.
It works as Holly grabs that device she is always talking into and starts calling my doctor. My nutritionist. My therapist. Words. Words. Words. “Winston… GI episode.” Words. Words. “Adjust his macros… Yes, I’ll drop a sample in the mail.” More words.
I yawn.
Aw, too bad, Jerk-face. Looks like your night with Holly is ruined. Because she cares forme,not you. She’ll be busy making sure I feel better and bowing to my every whim all night long.
So sulk along back to your room and shut the door. Why don’t you wash that bag with all your hockey gear in it? It smells worse than my crap.
We don’t need you?—
Wait. What is he doing?
No.
No. No. He is not supposed to be helping.
Don’t help Holly remove the linens from the bed, you asswipe!
Oh, come on. He actually knows how to use the washing machine, too? Her ex-jerk-face didn’t.
I grumble to an inconvenient spot in the middle of the hallway where they both have to practically jump over me to avoid stepping on me.
And what’s this now? An hour later, they order pizza delivered? Mm, smell that pepperoni and anchovies. Yum! Me and Holly’s favorite. Fudge, and Jerk-face’s too, apparently.
He doesn’t bother to leave enough for me to steal a single bite.
As I sit high on my living room perch seething and observing them on the couch below, I huff. They sit close, her head on his shoulder. They whisper more words. They hold hands. When they turn off the movie and put her freshly washed and dried pink bed linens back on her bed, they glue their lips together at her door for what seems like an eternity in hell for me.
Gag me. Please, someone, put me out of this misery.
Then they say goodnight, and he goes to his room.
Okay, so Jerk-face had a small breakthrough tonight.
It took me a year to beat the ex-jerk-face. Good riddance to him. By the looks of the stupid face on this one, I think I could have this wrapped up in a month.
If we must keep score, I’d say we’re tied, one to one.
The war has just begun.
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