Tweak: “So, I was watching this documentary the other day…”

Me: “Tweak, we don’t even have a television.”

Tweak is lounging on the couch , a fat furry potato of languor atop her pile of blankets. She has summoned just enough energy to lick a curled toe.

Tweak: “Maybe I saw it on the internet.”

Me: “You have nine lives and you’ve wasted four of them on Tumblr.”

She jumps down and eyes the scratching post, deciding.

Tweak: “Here’s the thing – are there really cats without hands?”

She lunges at the post, decided.

Me: “They don’t take the whole hand, Tweak, but yes, sometimes vets amputate the nails from cats.”

She attacks the wrapped wood, her claws hurling chunks of hemp to the floor.

Tweak: “That’s barbaric.”

She bites the rope. Her face is crazed. It might be love or hate.

Me: “Some cats ruin furniture.”

Tweak: “Some cats are idiots.”

She flips upside down, cat-asshole high and proud like punctuation. Her body hangs suspended from one caught nail.

Me: “Some cats don’t know how good they have it.”

She unhooks from the post, leaps into my lap, and digs a nail into my thigh.

Tweak: “By the way, your cable bill is due.”

She curls up and sleeps. I dab the blood with a tissue.

 

30 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak.”