Frisky Having Her Way ⟶

Does your pet rule the roost? Tell me your "Frisky" stories in the comments below.

I used to try to ignore it. I wore earplugs. I buried my head under a pillow. But Frisky is patient. She knows that I have to work in the morning. She knows that sleep deprivation is a torture tactic. Eventually, I shuffle out in the dark, pour a single tablespoon of kibble into her bowl, and she stops mid-yowl, sniffs it, and walks away without taking a bite.

Here is the thing about letting "Frisky have her way." It sounds frustrating. And sometimes, it is. But mostly? It’s liberating.

Frisky looked at me, blinked slowly (the universal cat sign for "bless your heart"), and immediately knocked a pen off the counter. 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.

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

After exactly four minutes of this psychic assault, I feel a phantom pressure on my leg. I get up to get a glass of water. When I return—poof. Frisky is stretched out like a furry starfish, belly up, paws spread, taking up 90% of the cushion. She looks up at me as if to say, "Oh, were you sitting here? That's weird. I don't remember your name being on the deed." Does your pet rule the roost

The most subtle way Frisky has her way is through the glittering art of cat hair distribution. I have a lint roller. I have a vacuum with a pet-hair attachment. I have tried everything.

Having her way extends to the witching hour. Between 2:45 and 3:15 AM, Frisky transforms from a lazy lap-warmer into a soprano performing a one-cat opera about The Great Hunger.

For me, that moment of clarity came at 6:00 AM on a Tuesday, and her name is Frisky. I wore earplugs

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 .

There is a certain point in every pet owner’s life when you have to admit the truth: You don’t own the pet. The pet owns you.

She doesn’t ask to join me. She doesn’t meow politely. Instead, she sits exactly three feet away, staring at the spot where my thigh meets the cushion. She performs what I call the "Surgical Stare."

And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.