Frisky: Having Her Way

The first major negotiation happened regarding the living room sectional. I prefer the left corner. It has the perfect sightline to the television and the window. Frisky, however, prefers the left corner while I am sitting in it .

When I adopted Frisky—a tortoiseshell cat with the eyes of a disgruntled Victorian orphan and the attitude of a rockstar trashing a hotel room—I thought I was doing a noble thing. "I will give her a loving home," I told the shelter volunteer. "I will provide structure, discipline, and warmth."

She didn't want the food. She just wanted me to get up . Frisky having her way

Yet, every morning, I find a single, perfect, white-and-orange strand of fur floating in my coffee mug. Before I pour the coffee.

In a world where I have to be on time, productive, polite, and predictable, Frisky answers to no one. She naps in the sunbeam even when the laundry needs folding. She demands pets, then bites me exactly 2.5 seconds later because she is done . She lives entirely on her own terms. The first major negotiation happened regarding the living

She doesn't say thank you. She doesn't say sorry for the 3 AM concert or the ruined rug.

She finds the single most echoey spot in the hallway—usually right outside my bedroom door—and sings the song of her people. It is a mournful wail that translates roughly to: "I can see the bottom of my food bowl. The abyss stares back. I am wasting away to nothing but fur and spite." Frisky, however, prefers the left corner while I

And when I finally give up on the left corner of the couch and sit on the floor instead, she will eventually jump down, walk a slow circle around my lap, and curl up with a deep, rattling purr.