Mishy.

If I were to play a game of recognition with her name then, without even having to think about it, I would offer the following words: Siamese, bitch, feline, deranged, jealous, whingeing, obsessive, claws, spoilt, intelligent, malicious, snobby, sleek…

If I cared to branch out and formulate sentences, then the following spring readily to mind:

- The occasional bane of my existence.

- The constant bane of Mr and Mrs Obese Bovine (although, for that I secretly congratulate her).

- Someone who has been known to cause me more tension than even Malone is capable of.

Again, I could go on.

However, there is absolutely no point.

All I really need to know in relation to Mishy is that she’s the very much loved pet of my very much loved partner.

Whatever I think about the subject is irrelevant. As are the facts that she’s bitten me on the nose, thrown up on my shoes, landed -- claws *very* much out -- on my back during a rather delicate moment, shredded two hideously expensive Versace cushions of mine and lost a report on the laptop that I’d been working on for a week.

All irrelevant.

Mind you, I don’t *think* she hates me.

Well, I *hope* she doesn’t hate me. She spends a fair bit of her time looking at me as if she’d like to exsanguinate me, but I truly think the majority of her hatred is directed -- quite rightly so -- to Chris’ neighbours.

Oh, and I don’t find it at all peculiar that I credit Mishy with knowing the word exsanguinate. If there was a cat on this earth that knew the meaning of it, then she’d be the one.

She just has that look about her.

Far more knowledgeable than a cat has any right to be.

Take this week for example. She’s pretending to be on her best behaviour because Chris is on a training course and I’m looking after her. I know better though and am confident that she’s simply humouring me; biding her time until she can next do me some ill will. It’s a game to her.

Chris thinks I’m paranoid.

I tell him that it’s okay for him. Mishy *loves* Chris. He saved her, but, more to the point, she’s got him under her paw. I’m just one of the legions of humans that fall under the umbrella title of ‘Not Chris’.

The last time I shared a few words on this subject with Chris, he asked whether I’d actually ever had a pet before or was I simply uptight for the sheer hell of it.

As a child, sure, my family had cats. Said cats, however, lived outside and were thankful for whatever scraps they were given to eat. They most certainly didn’t have the run of the entire house, sleep on the bed or refuse point blank -- I swear the expression on Mishy’s face reads, ‘if you think it’s so good, then *you* eat it’ -- to eat the (ridiculously expensive) cat food that was placed in front of them.

Mishy does all of the above and then some.

I have resigned myself to the fact that she is a law unto herself.

Right now, as I collapse onto Chris’ sofa, she’s sitting on the stereo looking at me blankly.

Inscrutable.

The last week has been an experience. Even though it’s thankfully drawing to a close, I’m still having difficulties coming to terms with the fact that Chris sucked me into cat-sitting detail. I’d begrudgingly offered to call in on my way home and feed her, but, oh-no, that wasn’t good enough.

Apparently she *needs* company.

She gets *lonely*.

I tried to convince Chris that I’d rather tell Malone that I’d accidentally shot the person I was supposed to be guarding than play slave to his snooty Siamese, but he wouldn’t have a bar of it.

I pouted, complained, whinged and then simply refused.

He, in turn, promised to repay the favour in some decidedly interesting ways…

Needless to say, Chris won and I reluctantly became Mishy’s house-guest for the week.

To say she was delighted with my arrival would be an understatement. Once she’d sniffed my luggage and satisfied herself that I *hadn’t* cut Chris up into tiny pieces and stuffed him in my suitcase, she basically accepted me as part of the furniture.

Literally.

I learnt very quickly not to place any of my things on any of her *spots* -- basically three-quarters of the apartment -- as they’d be *slaughtered* within ten minutes of their being placed there. This was a given, even if I hadn’t seen her for the past three hours. I also learnt that certain chairs were off-limits for me as they appeared to be her very own personal property.

A war was raged over the bed but after two nights of having my sleep interrupted by the most God-awful serenading, I called a truce and told myself that I was *allowing* her to share the bed with me.

She took this with *reasonable* grace and I only woke up to find her on my face *once*.

Since then, we *share* the bed. Very kindly, she allows me an entire *third* of it.

I think that means she likes me.

*Miaow*

I wearily drag my head off the arm of the sofa and peer at Mishy. She’s still on the stereo and I can see her tail switch precariously close to a pile of cds. "He’ll be home soon, okay? Leave me alone", I mutter, not caring anymore that I’ve crawled so far backwards as to be talking to a cat.

Hell, if it’s good enough for Chris, it’s good enough for me. Although… I’m sure he indulges in entire conversations with her..

She either nods at my comment, or I’m *seriously* losing the plot.

And to think Chris wonders why I don’t have pets. I like my sanity too much to have a so-called domesticated animal bring it into question.

Sighing, I lower my head back down and squeeze as much of my body as possible onto the sofa. All being well, Chris will be home in the next couple of hours -- I didn’t lie to Mishy… I wouldn’t dare -- but, as excited as I am by this, I can’t keep my eyes open and decide to have a nap.

I can’t believe how much cat-sitting has exhausted me.

Hours later, I wake up and immediately think that I’m having a heart attack. At my age! My chest is heavy and I can see bright lights flash before my eyes.

Willing myself to stay calm, I crack an eye open and immediately encounter wide, blue cat eyes peering at me intently. Opening the other eye allows me to see said cat sitting upright on my chest; looking as though butter wouldn’t melt.

I wonder dimly why I actually feel surprise at this.

The sound of movement next to the sofa alerts me to the fact that -- cat aside -- I’m not alone and I slowly turn my head towards the source of the noise. To my utter delight, wider, bluer versions of Mishy’s eyes stare back at me. Smiling, I let my gaze linger down the dimples, full lips, black v-neck and…

…find myself staring at a Polaroid camera.

Chris beams happily and *gleefully* waves a photo in front of me.

Reluctantly focussing on it, I can’t help but wonder what great cat Goddess I wronged in a former life. There I am, lying asleep on the sofa with Mishy on my chest, but the *true* highlight of the picture is the fact that she’s very carefully licking her backside… Back leg in the air in a pose that a contortionist would be proud of; Mishy’s using me as a bathing platform.

Fabulous.

The diatribe that is building in my mind dies a painless death as Chris kisses me quickly on the lips before picking Mishy off my chest and cuddling her.

I swing my legs off the sofa as Mishy shares a lament about her week.

Yeah, go on Mishy. Tell Chris how horrible I’ve been to you. Tell him how I’ve spent enough on food for you this week to feed an orphanage in a third-world country for an entire month. Oh, and make sure you tell him that I was nasty enough to spirit you off to the vet after you sneezed twice and I convinced myself that you had the feline-flu. Don’t forget to then add that the vet thought you were most likely allergic to my new aftershave and although it had cost me a small fortune, I immediately threw it out…

Putting her down on the ground, Chris sinks down on the sofa next to me. "See? I told you you’d get on fine! She likes you," his hand settles on my leg, "She says you can stay…"

I fail in my attempt to not feel grateful for this.

Chris’ hand closes around my thigh and squeezes. "Now, what’s say we settle what I owe you for looking after her…"

My mind says, ‘wonderful idea,’ but I don’t get it to translate over to my mouth as Chris’ lips settling on me renders me silent.

The last thing I see before surrendering myself to sensation is Mishy. She’s positioned herself on the back of the sofa, and she appears to be smiling…