It’s that time again when the human disappears, leaving me with a stranger. The new human calls my name, while holding out her hand. Wrinkling my nose, I look up eyeballing her and retreat to the cupboard. When I wake-up, she is still around. The newbie isn’t up to scratch, but I tolerate her. I get fed and let out, but she’s not ‘my human’, so I snooze a lot in a favourite chair.
After many moons, the human returns and shrieks, ‘Smudge, you’re so chunky,’ whatever that means? I nip her ankle and strut outside, and don’t come back till morning. I do not bat balls the human throws to me, or am interested in playing hide and seek chasey. The human is disappointed.
She has a new armchair that smells funny. Lounging in it, she breathes in the scent and pats the sides. I approach but she snaps, ‘Mine.’ Later, when she is not around I jump up. It’s a bit slippery, but bouncy and comfy. The human returns, ‘Hey, get off.’ I jump down as she throws a rug over the chair.
A few days later, she removes the rug. When she is not looking, I leap into the chair and plop myself down. Chilled, I dig in my claws and purr, but soon I’m sprung and the human yells. I open one eye, then cover my face with a paw. As I stretch out, my tail dangles over the seat.