Frisky Having: Her Way

Here is the thing about letting "Frisky have her way." It sounds frustrating. And sometimes, it is. But mostly? It’s liberating.

When I adopted Frisky—a tortoiseshell cat with the eyes of a disgruntled Victorian orphan and the attitude of a rockstar trashing a hotel room—I thought I was doing a noble thing. "I will give her a loving home," I told the shelter volunteer. "I will provide structure, discipline, and warmth."

Frisky looked at me, blinked slowly (the universal cat sign for "bless your heart"), and immediately knocked a pen off the counter. Frisky having her way

In a world where I have to be on time, productive, polite, and predictable, Frisky answers to no one. She naps in the sunbeam even when the laundry needs folding. She demands pets, then bites me exactly 2.5 seconds later because she is done . She lives entirely on her own terms.

There is a certain point in every pet owner’s life when you have to admit the truth: You don’t own the pet. The pet owns you. Here is the thing about letting "Frisky have her way

After exactly four minutes of this psychic assault, I feel a phantom pressure on my leg. I get up to get a glass of water. When I return—poof. Frisky is stretched out like a furry starfish, belly up, paws spread, taking up 90% of the cushion. She looks up at me as if to say, "Oh, were you sitting here? That's weird. I don't remember your name being on the deed."

The most subtle way Frisky has her way is through the glittering art of cat hair distribution. I have a lint roller. I have a vacuum with a pet-hair attachment. I have tried everything. It’s liberating

She also ensures that every black pair of pants I own looks like a yeti exploded in a yarn factory. It’s not negligence. It’s interior design. She is simply redecorating me.

For me, that moment of clarity came at 6:00 AM on a Tuesday, and her name is Frisky.

She doesn't say thank you. She doesn't say sorry for the 3 AM concert or the ruined rug.

And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.