All sorts of things are bound to take place in a huge house the doors of which are almost always wide open. One of those things was an outside cat that decided to casually stroll in one day like she owned the place. She just walked right through the front door and made herself comfortable first on the couch, then the kitchen floor and eventually everywhere else. Seeing as how she wasn’t much of a nuisance in a sense that she didn’t seem to require much other than an occasional place to nap, my roommate and I decided to let her be. He’d give her milk every now and then because as much as he wouldn’t admit it, he developed a soft spot for her, and I would shamelessly attempt to cuddle with her, which she would shamelessly continue denying me – that bitch.

Generally I’m not one to have a one way relationship with anyone or anything. If you’re not gonna give me the love and affection that I desire, why should I feed your furry face even if it is adorable? That’s right; it’s a two way street baby.

So we went on ignoring one another. She would hunt mice and lizards and nap on the couch and I would admire her beauty from a distance, patiently waiting for her to come around and love me like she was designed to do. Eventually she did exactly that. One random night she snuck into my room and onto my bed, snuggling with me and purring in my face. With that she hit the play button and our relationship finally became official. I went out the next day and bought her a bunch of tuna and a very cute feeding bowl, with paws and everything. She continues to be an outside cat in the sense that she’s out and about during the day, enjoying fresh air, chilling on the roof, climbing trees and giving her unclipped claws the workout that they deserve and then she comes home to me at the end of the night and sleeps at my feet. Her name is Fiddler Clementine and we’re in love.

The other day she killed a bird; ripped it to shreds and left its remains in one of the bedrooms presumably for me to admire. I don’t know what the bird did to provoke my Fiddie but it must have done something, otherwise it wouldn’t be lying on my carpet with empty eye sockets. Bird carcass and her hunting abilities aside, I must admit that I may have ruined her a little bit. She used to be much more independent, not expecting food to drop at her feet every time I’m in the kitchen. Now, every time I cook all I hear is Meow Meow Meow. Like dude, relax… I fed you already, don’t be greedy. It’s alright though. She’s probably still acclimating to the getting fed regularly fact. She doesn’t know that I won’t allow her to starve so her natural instinct is to eat as much and as often as absolutely possible. It’s alright Clem, meow away, I still love you.