My cat barfed on the couch and I sat in it. How’s that for a unique excuse? And, sadly, it’s true.
Katya, my 12-year-old kitty, has psychogenic alopecia. She licks her fur off. If you’ve ever been licked by a cat, you know that their tongues are like little pink lawn mowers. I have an idea that I could sell sets of salmon-flavored shaving cream plus a cat, and you’d never have to buy another razor in your life. All I need is a guy to back the idea, and I’ll be a millionaire. (If you haven’t read Michael Z. Lewin‘s UNDERDOG, buy it and read it NOW. I’ll wait.)
This cat was born stressed. The only things that calm her down are 1) for me to physically be touching her constantly and 2) cat dope. Too much dope is bad for anybody, and I have to move sometimes, much as I hate to do it.
So, apparently, she got all clogged up with all this hair that belonged on her outside, and deposited it lovingly in the spot where I usually sit, and it blended in with the pattern of the couch, and….
Besides, it was cold and wet and dark and I didn’t fancy driving home on the back roads when there might have been black ice.
I’m thinking of getting one of those calm-down-kitty pheromone dispensers, although writer Rebecca Marquis got one for her kitty and turned out to be allergic to it. Why is nothing ever easy?
WRITING PROMPT: How does your main character deal with stress?