By wayne scheer
I’ve lived in this house since I was a pup, which is a hell of a lot longer than that cat’s been here. Francine, the woman who lives here with me, is getting old and strange, smelling like the stuff in her bathroom that she rubs all over herself. She spends a lot of time with that feline on her lap and thinks it’s the funniest thing to call her PJ, “because she’s the cat’s pajamas.”
Freaking cat. Francine treats her like she’s some kind of princess, but I know PJ’s just running a con. A year ago, she was scrounging in open dumpsters, getting screwed by whatever came her way. But Francine “saved” her, and now she has full run of this place.
Her food is on the counter by the sink, so I can’t get at it, but she steals my chow. She doesn’t even eat it. She licks it and gets her cat stench all over it. And when I growl at her, Francine treats me like I’m the bad guy.
“Curly,” she says. “You mustn’t growl at PJ.”