She Hates Me

One would think that one had died and gone to heaven when a cat seeks one out to rumble.  And yet. 

Mad as a hatter cat springs from the bushes at the marina.  I am immediately hustled precisely 180 degrees from the correct direction.  The thing follows us.  Although done with spinning head, this still has the mark of informed consent.  And yet. 

Then we drive right past Petco.  I am apparently invisible. 

In light of this escalation, I’ve started a go bag between the ironing board and the office closet.  When the big one hits, I’m not making do with flares and astronaut food.  Up first: Buffy-sized Greenie. 

Yes, of course it was from John.  The size she gives me would go through the floor cracks.

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