January 9, 2015

Sorry I skipped yesterday, guys. Pilot light was out and my head was fuzzy. I’m not sure how anyone can be expected to concentrate when it’s so cold outside… so that’s my excuse. Merry Friday, everyone! Here’s today’s:

I can hear him coming long before he rattles the keys and shakily gets them into the lock. I can always tell when he’s coming home, but this time it’s not particularly difficult – he’s drunk again.

And Charlie is not a particularly quiet or graceful drunk. Still, I’m sitting by the door, waiting for him when he stumbles through it.

“Hey,” he says, the word long and drawn out, as though I’m watching him in slow motion. He stops and gives me a condescending pat on the head.

“Hey, there,” he says, looking at me. “How you doin’?”

I say nothing. What am I supposed to say? There’s nothing I could do right now that would make the situation any better. I just shake my head at him, watching as he stumbles past me, down the hall and into the kitchen, somehow shedding his shoes as he goes.

I take a moment, pairing the shoes back up and shunting them off to the side, by the foot of the closet. It’s good enough. And this way neither of us will trip over the damn things in the middle of the night. With a resigned sigh, I follow him into the kitchen, where I see him leaving a note for himself, scrawling on a piece of paper, completely tilted over the kitchen table, as though he needs his whole body to write with.

“Dear Me,” he narrates, as he scribbles in wide loops. “Tonight was awesome. Remember that. Awesome. Call Abby tomorrow.”

He looks up at me.

“You hear me, Olly?” he asks. “Awesome.”

I shake my head. I have no idea who Abby is. He probably doesn’t know who she is either. Just another in a series of faceless chicks at bars. He won’t have any clue who she is by tomorrow. And I’m pretty certain he won’t call.

Which is just as well, really. He’s brought girls home before. They’re inevitably loud and giggly. And they always seem to be the kind of girls who think it’s a good idea to smell like candy.

Why would you want to smell like an enormous bathtub full of vanilla?

I’ve never been able to figure it out.

But the super-sweet smell bothers me, so I always hide in the total opposite corner of the apartment when they’re here, to get as far away from them as possible.

Maybe he knows I hate them. Maybe that’s why he’s stopped bringing them around. I hope so, anyway.

He’s finished writing his letter to himself. He forgot to tack it up on the fridge. I’m certainly not going to do it for him.

I follow him into the bedroom, where he’s sprawled out on the bed, about ten seconds from passing out. The guy hasn’t even bothered to take off his jeans before climbing onto the bed.

I growl at him in irritation, not that he notices. And I make a choice. I latch onto the leg of his jeans, pulling hard, trying to tug them off.

For a few seconds, he fights me on it.

“Olly! Stop it,” he says lazily. “Bad boy.”

But he doesn’t have much fight left in him at this point, and after a bit more pulling, I finally manage to tug the gross, sweat-encrusted jeans off of him.

I leave them on the floor. He can wash them tomorrow, after he’s sobered up.

He’s an awful roommate, to be honest. He keeps a really unsteady schedule and I never know when he’s going to be home. Although I can’t help being glad to see him when he is. He always smells bad, especially when he’s been drinking – does he know how noxious his breath is? I mean, people tell me mine is bad, but his is definitely worse.

I trot back to the kitchen and after a bit of effort – pulling open a few cabinets and drawers, and a bit of rummaging – I manage to find where he keeps the bottled water. I tug out a bottle, and though it’s a bit difficult for me, I manage to haul it over to the side of the bed. He’ll need it when he wakes up.

I look up at him, passed out half-dressed on the bed, drooling, with that noxious breath. And then I hop up onto the bed and cuddle up by his side.

Somewhere between awake and asleep, he rolls over and plops a hand onto my head, taking a few seconds to scratch me behind my left ear, right in the spot that I like.

“Good boy, Oliver,” he murmurs, falling back asleep. “You’re such a good boy.”

My human might be a crappy roommate. And maybe he smells bad sometimes. But he’s still my human and I love him.

And of all of these things, it is only the last one that matters, as he gives me one more scratch behind the ear and falls asleep.

“Good human,” I think.

And it is the last thing I think before I fall asleep next to him.

Image courtesy of: http://www.morguefile.com/

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