My ex’s cat and I hated each other. A mutual dislike, my ex often said as we lay in bed staring at the ceiling. And it was. I hated everything about it: smell; hair; freaky eyes, way too green; how it meowed like crazy until I fed it. Everything. But when it died and I buried it in a suitably smelly, old shoe box in the garden, I still felt obliged to tell my ex (I wasn’t that cruel).
“I don’t own a cat,” she said.
“Our cat,” I replied.
“We never had a cat,” she hissed. “Grow up, it’s over,” she added, lips curled back, spittle frothing, and stormed back inside her brand new penthouse apartment.
Left alone in the pouring rain, (story of my life) I turned tail and went home. I was greeted with a meow and a pair of freaky green eyes. And so it went on.