Gatito came to live with me about a year ago — back then he was still Carlos and I was Auntie Candace. Our relationship was rocky to start. I threatened to send him to a farm upstate if he kept waking me up wailing at night. Luckily, a few nights shut in the bathroom were all he needed to get over that.
We’ve found our groove living together in 200 square feet. He thinks it’s weird that two days a week, I stare at a computer and ignore his offers to let me pet him or play together for eight straight hours.
I don’t understand his one-kitty mission to put all my hair elastics in his food bowl. Or why he insists on sleeping in a shoe box on the floor. We all have our quirks.
My cat-mate takes his job of patrolling the hallway every morning very seriously. He doesn’t let me forget to open the door while I’m eating breakfast. He has also trained me to play laser pointer with him each night before I go to bed. My niece and nephews enjoy Skyping with him. In fact, they usually ask for “Carlos” immediately. I try not to take it personally, but when was the last time Gatito snuck them chocolate or played endless rounds of Duck, Duck, Goose? I thought so.
I’m a journalist, content strategist, doting auntie, amateur bobsledder, fitness enthusiast, and wannabe health nut (who loves chocolate and pizza too much to fully commit). I don't want you to think my life is perfect. It's not.