Frisky Having Her Way File

For me, that moment of clarity came at 6:00 AM on a Tuesday, and her name is Frisky.

There is a certain point in every pet owner’s life when you have to admit the truth: You don’t own the pet. The pet owns you. Frisky having her way

She just closes her eyes, trusting that the world—and her human—will continue to bend to her will. For me, that moment of clarity came at

When I adopted Frisky—a tortoiseshell cat with the eyes of a disgruntled Victorian orphan and the attitude of a rockstar trashing a hotel room—I thought I was doing a noble thing. "I will give her a loving home," I told the shelter volunteer. "I will provide structure, discipline, and warmth." She just closes her eyes, trusting that the

I used to try to ignore it. I wore earplugs. I buried my head under a pillow. But Frisky is patient. She knows that I have to work in the morning. She knows that sleep deprivation is a torture tactic. Eventually, I shuffle out in the dark, pour a single tablespoon of kibble into her bowl, and she stops mid-yowl, sniffs it, and walks away without taking a bite.

She has been knocking pens off counters ever since. And pillows off couches. And plants off shelves. And, last week, my entire carefully folded pile of laundry onto the dusty floor.

She didn't want the food. She just wanted me to get up .