Tweak: “I’m hungry.”

Me: “Be quiet. I’m dreaming.”

Tweak: “Fine. Dream me up some breakfast.”

Me: “Can’t you hear me snoring?”

Tweak: “You don’t snore.”

Me: “Well, I would if I weren’t so exhausted.”

My eyes are closed. Tweak is sitting on my chest with her face so close to my mouth I can count her whiskers. There are eight million.

Tweak: “You have to feed me every day.”

She nudges my chin with her forehead.

Me: “Or what?”

Tweak: “Or I can’t take over the world.”

Me: “You mean the couch.”

Tweak: “That is my world.”

She twists on her side and bats her eyelashes against my arm skin. It tickles. Like a Taser.

Me: “Do cats have eyelashes?”

Tweak: “Eight million.”

She rolls onto her back and stabs me in the throat with a lot of claws.

Tweak: “Eight million.”

Me: “Quit reading my mind!”

She squints against my exhale.

Tweak: “You were dreaming about soccer players.”

Me: “How do you know?”

Tweak: “You screamed ‘GOOOOAAALL!!”

Me: “Then why did you wake me up?!?”

Tweak: “Because I’m hungry.”

She climbs on the pillow and chews my hair.

Me: “The same thing we do every day: ‘Feed me, clean my box, pounce on a milk ring.’ Eat, shit, prey.”

I stumble into the kitchen and pour nurdles in Tweak’s bowl.

Tweak: “GOOOOAAALL!!!”

 

18 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”