Tweak is stretched out in a square of sunlight on the carpet.
Me: “Getting recharged?”
I cleared away boxes just moments ago. Tweak glides down and claims victory over the new warm surface, or, as Tweak calls it, a “solar panel.”
Tweak: “Gotta power up the sarcasma-tron.”
Me: “I don’t think of you as sarcastic. More like honest with a side of pissed off.”
Bowie-dog doddles in. “Better to be pissed off than pissed on.”
Tweak: “You told that joke in 3rd grade.”
Bowie: “You’ve been pissed off since 2nd.”
Tweak climbs into a banana box to prove it.
Me: “Have you calmed down?”
Tweak: “So how long before we have to move? Six months? A year?”
Tweak: “I’M NOT READY!”
Me: “You don’t have to DO anything. You’re a princess.”
Tweak rolls over and offers us her pink belly, a peach ripe for worship.
Tweak: “Who will bring my food?”
Me: “Molly, the soft girl.”
Tweak: “Who will carry my scratching posts?”
Me: “The Boy.”
She flips upright.
Tweak: “The Boy will be here?”
Me: “Careful, Tweak. That was almost a smile.”
She squints to rearrange the happy. Clint Eastwood in fur.
Tweak: “And who wrestles the litter box?”
Tweak: “Don’t forget my sifters. I hate when my shit sits and the dog eats it.”
Bowie: “I don’t eat shit. I test it for humble pie. So far you’re clean.”
Tweak stretches out again in the sun, gorgeous despite the disdain. Maybe because of.
Me: “Tweak, do nothing.”
Tweak: “Got it.”
Me: “But please make yourself available for transport tomorrow afternoon at 4:00.”
Tweak: “Piss off.”
To be continued…
29 May 2015, “Tolerating Tweak”