“Here.”

I toss Tweak a store-bought cat toy.

Tweak: “What’s this?”

Tweak is asleep on a tuffet. Well, she WAS asleep. Now she has one eye closed and one eye open, and the one eye that’s open is kind of pissed off. Probably because I just hit it with a stuffed mouse.

Me: “It’s a gift.”

I didn’t MEAN to hit her in the eye. I meant to hit her in the belly.

Tweak: “A gift from who?”

Not the belly. The head. I kind of wanted to belt her in the head.

Me: “From WHOM, Tweak. From WHOM.”

I’m still sort of mad at her for hiding during my party.

Tweak: “Who bit you in the grammar ass?”

Me: “Where did you go all day? I had people here. They all wanted to meet Tweak the Oracle Cat.”

Tweak: “I warned you. I’m not comfortable in large groups.”

Me: “Half of them think I made you up!”

Tweak: “YOPP.”

Me: “You are a lot of things, Tweak, but you are not FAKE. You’re here, right HERE, taking your third nap. You are the Jojo of Who-ville. You. Are. Here.”

Tweak: “I’m not special.”

Me: “You’re short-bus special.”

Tweak: “I could stand to lose a few pounds.”

Me: “You could stand to gain a few followers.”

Tweak: “And I’m kind of a pain in the…”

Me: “RABBIT SEASON.”

Tweak: “DUCK SEASON!”

We share a brief, affectionate death-stare, then we both glance down at the stuffed mouse. I pick it up again. The mouse is heavy for its size, collapsing into the palm of my hand like a testicle. Above its pointy cloth nose are two bobbly eyes, and its body is covered with jagged-y “fur” made of looped brown yarn. It’s an absurd rug nugget.

Me: “It’s chock full of crack-nip.”

I drop the mouse-ticle. It plops to the carpet, a jaunty bean bag. Tweak hops down from her tuffet and sniffs.

Nothing.

Me: “You’re kidding.”

Tweak: “What?” This time, it’s a question.

Me: “You’re not gonna roll around like a meth head then twist up a fatty to calm down??”

Tweak: “Are you high?”

I stomp to my computer, finally doubting her existence. I type in Google: “Are there actually cats who don’t respond to catnip, or is Tweak just a lying whore?” Google smacks me down. It turns out there ARE such animals. Not common, but real.

I turn to Tweak. She is back up on her tuffet cleaning mouse-ticle fuzz off her nose.

Me: “Cats who really love their mothers have chemical reactions to kitty dope, you know. For the internet.”

Tweak: “Sorry. I’m made of sterner stuff.”

Me: “You can’t even be a proper drug addict.”

Tweak: “I can be a proper bitch.”

Me: “What’s the point? For who??”

Tweak: “For WHOM.”

Me: “YOPP.”

 

28 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”