He is so pussy-whipped.

The minute he’s up, she’s at him about breakfast, giving him a plaintive little sound and that 800-number poster child expression with her eyes. Immediately, he gets her something to eat, and he doesn’t even get a “thank you.” Some days, just to be stubborn, he’ll wait for a little bit; but all she needs to do is lurk about and stare at him–almost reproachingly–before he gives in and caters to her needs.

He initiates all the loving touches. He caresses her, kisses her, gives her back rubs; she either submits and enjoys or pulls away. If she ever initiates anything, it’s because she wants something. Even knowing this, he gets her what she wants anyway.

She doesn’t do a thing around the house, except maybe make a mess every now and then, and he dutifully cleans up after her without saying a word.

He talks to her, but he doubts she listens to a word he says. Yet when she talks, she expects him to attend to her. She’s so adorable, he forgives her for just about anything, even for manipulating him–and he knows she’s manipulating him. Anyway, it’s not as if she knows any better; in any case, he loves her, and he knows that in her own fashion she loves him, too.

It’s silly, really, this relationship with man and cat. He is so pussy-whipped, it’s ridiculous.

Then again, he lovingly compares that cat to me. So in the end, I guess it’s okay.

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