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?”

Me: “Tomorrow.”

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?”

Me: “Guess.”

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”