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  • Writer's pictureMike Ehredt

Conversations with my Cat

"Seriously? I have to move?"

"Get your own chair and slurp on your stupid coffee in your cute mug." She sneers at me.

Rosie, our blue Russian is in fine form this morning and despite her foul mood it is time for our daily conversations. It is a game of ping pong with her. Back and forth, back and forth.

"Why do you just lay there?" I ask.

"Why do you care?"

"Well I'm curious. I mean isn't there something for you to do like find a mouse or chase some birds and by the way, keep your critters out of the house, geez there was your leftovers on the floor of my man-cave again and what's with the feathers in the bathroom?"

"You're such a wuss" Rosie says.

Here we go.

"What's for breakfast?" she asks.

"Little Friskies" I reply.

"Screw that, I want some of that soft shit in the can that smells like chicken"

"You eat too much of that" I say.


"You do. You can't even get through the cat door anymore. Tubby."

"That hurts"

"I'm sorry" Not.

"You're old, bald and talk to a cat" she whispers.

"Can you move over please, I'd like to read a little."

"That's sweet" she says, curling herself into a ball.

"It's a good book by Charles Bukowski called Ham on Rye" you would like it if you could read.

"Oh my favorite book is called "I Don't Give a Shit" and it's by me" she purrs triumphantly.

"I wish you were a dog" I mutter.

"I wish you were a bird," she replies.

Her eyes are half shut now and she pretends not to listen to my yammerings through Chapter Seven.

The wind is chilly, the air damp and leaves fall and my coffee is disappearing rapidly.

Stillness is broken as the rocking chair creaks and my cat is asleep again...

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