I have a dependent minor. Her name is Ella and she’s four. Also, she’s a cat. She’s used to spending quality time with me 24/7 and she doesn’t take it well that I’ve started to attend a daily course out in the wilderness.
I can’t say what she does when I’m out—I suspect not much—but when I’m in, she melts with me into one. The snap above illustrates our symbiosis. Where I go, the cat goes, and where I sit, the cat sits at my feet.
It’s cute and annoying. I have a huge trouble disengaging her from my legs when I’m trying to leave the flat in the morning. In the evening, she expresses her excitement by meowing for hours on end like her food depended on it. It doesn’t.
When I fail to pet her in regular five to ten minute intervals, she subtly points out that I’m neglecting her by hanging herself from the blinds. She also enjoys getting stuck by her nails in the most unimaginable places—like in the slit between a built-in oven and the worktop.
I’m considering applying to the relevant institution for a confirmation of my inability to work otherwise than from home. It’s in the best interest of the cat’s welfare and my mental health. One can take only so much of sad kitty eyes.