Devil

Oh, God! She hates me.

I know she does. Today morning, while I pushed her food toward her and made my eyes go as round as they would, she turned her nose in disdain and didn’t give me the time of day. Yet when she needs me it’s as if I am her sun and she all the planets together, revolving around me in ever agitated circles. How is that fair? How is that just? I always thought we were in this relationship together!

And now there she is, peeking from around the hallway corner as I try to get work done. Oh, she knows I see her; so much for incognito spying. She wants me to know she sees me. She wants me to remember.

I think this particular episode of ire might be about last night, when I booted her out of the room. I’d had enough of her mewling and crying, enough of those needy demands and that sharp insistence that I be her slave. I wanted to be alone, to enjoy the silence in my head for a few minutes. And what does she do when I ask for something as small as that? She wrecks the sofa, throws down the lamp, almost topples the T.V. and leaves it hanging by its cord somehow still jammed in the socket, and tears a long strip out of my good coat.

Now here we are in the morning, me pleading and her in no mood to relent, and I’m seriously considering the merits of sending her back to the animal shelter. It’s hell having a cat.

--Aqsa Mustafa

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