Mylar’s Roommate

In “Anecdotal Tales”, stories will be told. Some will be fun, some will not. Some will be great, some will be less so. Some stories are true, some are merely possible. This is one of them.

Mylar’s Roommate

Mylar laid in the sun, soaking up some late afternoon warmth which was entirely unseasonal.  Still, she was not one to complain and welcomed the rays as they beat upon her stomach.  Her eyes were thin slits as she blinked into the brightness and stretched out her arms and back.  The temperature was dropping just enough.  She turned away from the window and shook the stiffness from her. 

Stealthily she let her feet plod against the carpet and snuggled down next to her unabridged copy of Atlas Shrugged.  (Those revised and shortened versions were so pedestrian.  They lacked the character and depth that the author had worked so hard to infuse.)  She lightly skimmed the top of the page with her nail and flipped to the next chapter.  Just as she was beginning to dissect the passage, she heard a familiar sound approaching.  Oh great, she though.  He’s home.

With a move that betrayed just how practiced the gesture was, Mylar closed the book and pushed it far underneath the couch.  He never bothered to vacuum, let alone look below any furniture, so her secret was safe.  As she was pushing the book out of view, she heard his heavy feet clop down ever closer only to stop at the door.  Mylar heard the familiar sound of the clod fidgeting with his keys and slowly, clumsily, fitting the key to the lock.  She hopped onto the couch, scurried across its cushions, landed on the floor, and made it to the entryway just as the deadbolt was sliding back into its fitting. 

Dutifully, Mylar was in her assigned spot just as he walked through the door and she looked up at him and meowed persistently at him.  He mumbled something incoherent in reply.  Mylar shrugged, knowing his brain was comparable to tapioca at this time of day, and followed him.  That was their routine and Mylar had learned to just play along.  This did not mean that she had to act her role in submissive silence.

She meowed repeatedly, letting it be known that she would like to be fed now.  Her willingness to let him dole out morsels at a pace that was convenient for him only went so far.  Granted, she had already helped herself to a strawberry pop-tart, but he didn’t need to know that.  He would find out soon enough.  Besides, she hadn’t eaten the whole thing, only the part that had fallen on the stove.  There were still plenty of crumbly pieces on the floor that he could help himself to.  Really, he should be honored that Mylar was willing to share food with him.

After a few minutes of the man setting down his wallet keys, and thumbing through the mail, Mylar’s vocal protests produced the desired effect.  He went to the cabinet, opened the door, and placed a small handful of food in the small plastic bowl on the floor.  Mylar momentarily considered lecturing him on almost closing the cabinet door on her, again, but she had gotten so used to it that she went straight to her food.

The meal was soon devoured.  Mylar, still a bit hungry after a hard day of basking in the sun and keeping the carpet company, asked for more.  In reply, she found herself unceremoniously hoisted off the ground.  She started to protest.  Who was she to be treated so roughly?  She was not some bath towel to be thrown about and discarded.  But then, he started scratching her behind the ears.  She just couldn’t help herself and the purrs started resonating uncontrollably.  Perhaps this roommate of hers served a valuable function after all.   Regardless, she thought to herself, he’ll earn his keep when he cleans up that mess I left in the litter box.

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About anecdotaltales
He's a simple enough fellow. He likes movies, comics, radio shows from the 40's, and books. He likes to write and wishes his cat wouldn't shed on his laptop.

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