Frisky Having Her Way -

Yet, every morning, I find a single, perfect, white-and-orange strand of fur floating in my coffee mug. Before I pour the coffee.

When I adopted Frisky—a tortoiseshell cat with the eyes of a disgruntled Victorian orphan and the attitude of a rockstar trashing a hotel room—I thought I was doing a noble thing. "I will give her a loving home," I told the shelter volunteer. "I will provide structure, discipline, and warmth." Frisky having her way

Frisky looked at me, blinked slowly (the universal cat sign for "bless your heart"), and immediately knocked a pen off the counter. Yet, every morning, I find a single, perfect,

The most subtle way Frisky has her way is through the glittering art of cat hair distribution. I have a lint roller. I have a vacuum with a pet-hair attachment. I have tried everything. "I will give her a loving home," I

She also ensures that every black pair of pants I own looks like a yeti exploded in a yarn factory. It’s not negligence. It’s interior design. She is simply redecorating me.

She doesn’t ask to join me. She doesn’t meow politely. Instead, she sits exactly three feet away, staring at the spot where my thigh meets the cushion. She performs what I call the "Surgical Stare."

Here is the thing about letting "Frisky have her way." It sounds frustrating. And sometimes, it is. But mostly? It’s liberating.