She’s the world’s greatest snuggle bunny. For Greg. She treats the rest of us like rabies.
I never imagined what would eventually happen, this side of 11 years ago, when we so graciously brought her bony 3 lb furryness home. I never in a million years would have dreamed that someday…she would steal my husband. She seemed so tiny and innocent at the time. But don’t let her vacant stare fool you: this girl has moxie. She is sly. Her flirtation started slowly: a thigh cuddle here, a shared nap there. But sometimes I’d wake up on Sunday mornings and see her curled up by my side, so I naively believed she loved us equally.
I was wrong.
Dressing up for her man.
Sydney had a plan, a full decade in the making. It’s funny how 20/20 hindsight can be, and you wonder, how could I have missed the signs? While I was busy raising babies, she was working her mystical feline magic. When I no longer had time to curl up with Greg on the couch for Sunday football…she did. When I no longer had my evenings free to idly chat on the couch…she did. When I no longer wanted the extra calories from a handful of tortilla chips and politely turned them down…she never did. And when he’d give her the chip, she would kiss him…RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. Oh yes, the signs were right in my face, but I assumed because she was A CAT, she was no threat to my marriage.
I was wrong.
During the Polar Vortex, she turned into Greg’s scarf. For days.
How can I compete? She’s never whines about being too cold. She never gets sick. She never complains. She never curses in front of the children when she drops an entire bottle of toilet bowl cleaner on her foot. She never gets overwhelmed and has one too many beers on a Friday night, crying about belly fat. In fact, she LOVES her belly fat. She’s happy being the size of a honey badger. She never overspends the kids’ clothing budget, or has unrealistic expectations for family vacations. In fact, she has never even left this house. Or his side, now that I think about it.
I’m a big girl, and I don’t cry about spilled milk (nor do I lick it right off the floor). What’s done is done, and the fact is this: a catty bitch named Sydney has stolen my husband. He calls lovingly calls her Sydney-Bean, a pet-name if you will. OH GOD! THE IRONY OF THAT PHRASE! If you see her, tell her I know when I’ve been bested by a better…living creature. Bonne chance Fat Cat. Bonne chance…