text: Context: Cat/housesat for a coworker, wrote this when they returned from their vacation to let them know all that’s happened. Posted it on facebook as my status and got positive feedback, so I’m sharing it here too. My name is Boris Kuslitskiy. Please don’t steal this. Thursday. You leave, the cats are plunged into the unexpected onset of Feast 2012, gorging on dry cat food. Friday. Ryan leaves us, the going away party includes alcohol, as does the bar I attend after. Arriving home at 5AM, I decided not to grace the cats with my presence again just yet. Saturday Evening. I arrive to feed and water the cats. Simon is friendly, Lionel chooses to ignore my presence. Sunday. The cats starve and dry out, reduced to only helping themselves to endless amounts of dry cat food. They operate with a different definition of starve than we do. Monday Evening. I stop by on my way from the movies with a friend, Sasha. Simon is distant, and fat, while Lionel is nearby, and fatter. Sasha confirms my analysis. Tuesday Night. I arrive late, commence furtending, continue furtending, and, finally, complete furtending. Having nowhere else to hang my work clothes for the next day, I prop open the bedroom door and hang them off the top. This lets Simon sit on the living room table and stare into the bedroom, into my eyes, and into my soul, were I to have one. He does this without fail, slowly falling asleep and staring at me through drooping eyelids as the minutes pass. I have broken his sense of order and he is no longer nice to me. Without shifting his gaze, Simon invents a time machine, locking me in his unrelenting stare for approximately 2.6 eternities. This is unsettling, but eventually the time machine falters and I sleep. Wednesday Morning. The first thing I see upon leaving the bedroom is Lionel rolling over to expose his belly. This is irresistible and just about cancels out having a shorter commute to work. Soon after, I scratch the underside of his cheek, and Lionel pushes his not unremarkably soft and fat face into my hand until it’s pressed down firmly against the ground. Noting the unforgiveable interruption in scratches, he graciously lifts his head, allows my hand to rise up to meet his cheek, and proceeds to push it down to the ground again. This repeats. Wednesday Evening. I arrive, Sasha joining me soon after I finish the furtendings. Beer, wine, and scratches flow furily. Sasha titles Simon Flat-Face. In response, his face is emotionless, flat, and furry. Lionel adopts the name Fat-Face, and my hand. I will file to reclaim custody shortly. Sasha sleeps over, being offered the bedroom while I claim the couch as my own. Night between Wednesday and Thursday. Sasha wakes up to see Simon inches away from her face, staring at her. I have the vaguest inkling of a feeling that Simon does not particularly like it when anybody else sleeps in that bed. Thursday Morning. Lionel is adorable. Simon is a cat. Thursday Evening. A different friend comes over. Lionel remains fat while Simon remains a cat. Together, they mostly are fat, and hide, their hides being fat, and hidden. Friday Morning. Reclined on the couch with my hand scratching the nearby Lionel, I conceive of an experiment, utterly moronic in hindsight. What if, just once, I choose to not spend every free moment scratching Lionel? Still purring like a tractor with a megaphone, Lionel jumps up onto the couch, wanders across my body and then, first gently, then heavily, struts his way across my neck, leaning his side against my face and forcing his furriness into every crevice, his fat molding itself to my face, leaving no respite and much hair. Sunday Evening. I stop by to pick up my things and scratch Lionel. He seems to have acquired a better invisible megaphone, as he purrs even more loudly. Monday. I miss them. Tuesday. I miss them. Wednesday. I fondly recall the fat smothering my face as Lionel saunters across my neck. I can almost taste the fur now.