I awoke to the unmistakable sound of something being dragged across the floor. As my eyes adjusted, I realized it was a sock—my sock—being pulled with great determination by Whiskers. He paused, glanced at me over his furry shoulder, and dropped it ceremoniously on my pillow.
Then he spoke. Again.
"I take tuna as payment. None of that budget brand nonsense."
This was my life now. A feline with dominion over my tenancy, dietary judgments, and apparently, interior design choices. Yesterday, he'd moved my throw pillows. "Too loud," he said.
I staggered into the kitchen only to find the rent notice pinned to the fridge—with a fishhook. A literal fishhook. In elegant cursive: Rent due by Friday. Late fee: one belly rub per day.
Was it possible to break a lease with a creature that slept on a windowsill and patrolled the hallway like a mafia boss in fur?
I made toast. He made judgmental purring noises. We had an understanding. Sort of.