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.”

“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”

“Tweak.”

“Mrow.”

“Tweak?”

“Mrow.”

“TWEAK!”

“……………”

Me: “Tweak, I’m having the biggest party of the year today. You can’t just suddenly stop talking! You don’t exist if you go silent.”

Tweak: “Mrow.”

Me: “You’ll be like Bugs Bunny’s singing frog!”

Tweak: “Mrow.”

Me: “Hello my baby, hello my honey…”

Tweak: “………”

Me: “Gah. You’re killing me, Tweak. This is your moment to shine. Use your words.”

Tweak: “Toy boat.”

Me: “Ass.”

Tweak: “Red leather, yellow leather.”

Me: “Hole.”

Tweak: “Your mom.”

Me: “You’re going to be a long day.”

26 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

Tweak: “WHERE IS HE??”

Tweak dashes to a room, stops.

Tweak: “You said he was coming last night?!”

She dashes to another room, stops. Yells.

Tweak: “You said he was bringing his lap!”

She attacks a throw rug, biting the corners and folding it like an origami swan. Or a Tasmanian devil.

Tweak: “You said he was bringing The Girlfriend that feeds me ice cream!”

Tweak races up the couch at a diagonal, hurdles over a chair, and dives onto her tower of blankets. She punishes the top fleece by whipping it to the floor and then stomping the life out of it. It’s the Parkour of the Pissed Off.

Tweak: “I need that girl’s lap. I knead that girl’s lap.”

She’s chanting now, abusing homophones.

She leaps up into my lap, even though it’s obviously inadequate, and stabs a claw through my thigh, whisper-breathing into my face.

Tweak: “Where. Are. They.” It is not a question. Her assassin’s breath is hot and serious.

Me: “Calm down, Tweak.”

She inhales, making the attempt. She exhales, hissing, failing.

Tweak: “I am calm.”

She stabs three or four peaceful shivs into my leg to prove it.

Me: “Tweak, The Boy got on an airplane in Florida last night, and the plane flew him to Chicago. The plane stopped flying because of something called ‘weather’ and they made The Boy get out.”

Tweak: “Did you sick bastards evolve thumbs just to torture me?”

Me: “The Boy had to spend the night there.”

Tweak: “They eat people in Chicago!”

Me: “He’s wiry. He will not be first choice in the Cannibal Scramble.”

Tweak: “He needs to hurry up so he can pet me.”

She deflates. All of Tweak’s rage melts into my lap, my lap that is imperfect but convenient.

Tweak: “I miss him.”

I stroke a finger over her forehead.

Me: “He will be here tomorrow before you finish your second breakfast.”

I rub the soft fur behind her ears.

Tweak: “You’re doing it wrong.”

 

25 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

Me: “Come on, dog, it’s time for a bath.”

I step into the sunshine to look for the old woman. Company is coming and nothing says “I love you guys” like a smelly dog.

Me: “Bowie?”

I scan the backyard. Bowie-dog is hiding under a hedge. She loves a bath the way I love a rectal exam.

Me: “I know it’s not your favorite thing, but a bath will keep you from The Cancer. From the Cancer of Offending Friends. From the Offriending.”

And because she’s a very good dog, and because she will do almost anything to keep me from making up words, she drags herself out from under the bush, voicing her protest with an exhalation of long-suffering. She may be old, but she sighs like a teenager being prepped for braces. Or slaughter.

Me: “Go. Get in the bath.”

Bowie-dog hangs her head low and shuffles down the hall to the torture chamber. Tweak watches this death march from atop her tower of blankets. Tweak licks a paw and scrubs it over her face, mocking.

Tweak: “Noob.”

Bowie: “Whore.”

Tweak: “Your mother was a honey badger.”

Bowie: “Your father dripped down my leg.”

Tweak: “That’s why you need a bath. Because licking yourself would be incest.”

Me: “Oh my god… STOP IT, YOU TWO!! This is a time of cleansing!”

Bowie-dog dutifully climbs into the tub and I soak her with warm water. I lather her thick black fur with shampoo. Her ears are resigned to dying and she tastes the air like it contains Zyklon B.

Me: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, old woman, it’s just a BATH.”

Bowie: “It’s just a colonoscopy.”

I rinse off the soap and towel-dry her feet and head. I leave the bulk of her heavy wet coat for the sun to evaporate.

I release her from Guantanamo, and Bowie-dog beelines for the back door. But not before Tweak paints a target on herself.

Tweak: “You know… cats don’t need baths.”

Bowie locks and loads, steps deliberately in front of Tweak, and shakes 40 gallons of intolerance onto her throne.

I high-five the dog.

21 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

 

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”

Me: “Tweak, we’re going to have a party soon.”

Tweak. “We.” (Not a question.)

Me: “You’re right. I’M having a party. YOU are having a collapse.”

Tweak: “I am NOT collapsing. I am simply going underground until the ‘fun’ is over.”

Me: “Where do you hide, anyway?”

Tweak: “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”

Me: “You mean quickly instead of this slow inexorable descent into madness?”

Tweak: “Tom Waits called. He wants his Renfield back.”

Me: “No live insects for me, Tweak. YOU will make me immortal. The ultimate gift. You are Lord of the prize.”

Tweak: “I’m pretty handy with a Brussels sprout too.”

Me: “Anyway, I just wanted to warn you. We are having visitors.”

Tweak: “I will be in the dungeon. Eating spiders.”

Me: “Would you like flies with that?”

 

17 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

Me: “You tried to catch a fly last night.”

Tweak: “I did not.”

Me: “I saw you.”

Tweak: “You didn’t film it.” (Sort of a question.)

Me: “No, I was too busy not laughing.”

Tweak: “You shouldn’t let those revolting mouth-breathers in the house.”

Me: “I don’t LET them in, Tweak. Flies are Spartan warriors. They are the hyena of insects. They find the path of least resistance to the stench of rotting meat. And shattered ambitions.”

Tweak: “They taste with their feet.”

Me: “Flies don’t breathe through their mouths. They take in oxygen through their skin.”

Tweak: “They barf on their food. YOUR food.”

Me: “The plate on their back is called a ‘scutum.’ Flies are scutum-breathers.”

(The fur on Tweak’s back has a seizure.)

Me: “So why didn’t you catch the fly? Bowie catches badgers.”

Tweak: “That dog is a scutum-breather.”

Me: “Flies only live a couple of weeks. You still have time.”

Tweak: “To commit suicide? Here, hold my scutum.”

 

12 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

Me: “Tweak, how would you feel about sharing me?”

Tweak: “DID YOU GET A DATE?!?”

I pour coffee into my mug.

Me: “No.”

I add caramel sauce and Splenda.

Me: “No, I haven’t been that lucky.”

Tweak does not care that I’m turning my morning inoculation into a liquid candy bar. Until I open the fridge.

Tweak: “Does getting a date depend on luck?”

I pour cream into my coffee. Tweak watches me manipulate the carton like I’m David Copperfield conjuring, well, cream. Tweak begs in and out of my legs, purring like a Kardashian. I disappear the cream back in the fridge.

Tweak: “Or are you just a bitch?”

Me: “No, Tweak. I have high standards.”

Tweak: “Like what?”

Me: “I prefer men with hair. And brains. And a tiny birthmark on the back of one leg in the shape of an otter.”

I snap the lid shut on my Tim Horton’s mug and stick an extra-long straw through the hole. Tweak shakes her head.

Tweak: “Women who drink coffee from straws otter re-think their standards.”

Tweak licks the shame of association from her hands.

Me: “You’re hilarious. Besides, I wasn’t talking about a DATE.”

She combs a corrugated trail down her pink belly.

Me: “How would you feel if I got a second cat?”

Tweak halts mid-lick and slowly retracts her tongue. Cleopatra’s asp bore less malice.

Tweak: “Do you suppose that your dates prefer you dead or alive? Or can they even tell the difference?”

I sip.

Me: “You have been raised by wolves.”

Tweak: “Just one. Do you know what they call a she-wolf?”

Me: “Bitch.”

Tweak: “Uh huh.”

 

11 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”

 

I peel the case off an overstuffed pillow. It is too snug; the pillow fights like a fat kid. I shake the lump up and down until my eyes burn and my thumbs hurt, and finally the naked pillow plops to the floor. It’s like undressing an Oompa Loompa. Drunk.

I start to strip the second pillow, and the rustling in the air is a Bat-Signal. Tweak bounds onto the bed.

Tweak: “I AM HERE!”

She stands proud, toes splayed, tail lashing the air like a cape.

Tweak: “I am here to save the day!”

Me: “Cool. Grab the edge of that blanket and bring it towards me.”

Tweak: “You mean, like THIS?”

She leaps onto the blanket and stabs it with her cotton-ball hands as if “cute” were her super power.

Me: “You’re not helping.”

Tweak: “Oh, I think I am.”

She dives onto the other corner, spins 180°, and sticks the landing.

Tweak: “TA DA!”

Me: “Move over, Mary Lou.”

I roll the blankets down to the foot of the bed, uncovering the sheets. I turn back to find a swaddled quivering lump. It seems to be giggling.

I whip off the top sheet. Tweak stares up at me, her white hair at static attention like a crazed genius, her dopey face betraying her intellectual famine.

Tweak: “How did you find me?!”

Me: “Super heroes don’t giggle.”

She licks a paw and rubs it over her head, smoothing her Einstein into a Clark Kent.

Tweak: “What are you doing, anyway?”

Me: “I’m making the bed.”

Tweak: “It looks like you’re un-making the bed.”

Me: “Yes. And then I will re-make the bed with clean sheets.”

Tweak: “Why? Who is ever going to see it?”

I open my mouth, close it.

Me: “Grab that blanket over there. And hang yourself with it.”

Tweak: “TA DA!”

 

9 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”