This happened at Christmas. It is almost August when I got around to writing. Some stories take a while to get to
For Christmas, M bought me a throw blanket. Presumably me. Possibly the cat.
The idea was to have something to leave on top of the comforter so that when Grogu comes to bed, I can give him something to settle into without sacrificing half the duvet. He is a Devon Rex, which means he runs cold and treats any available warmth like a personal entitlement. In warmer months I would just toss the comforter over him and he would curl up in it and stay there. In winter that is not really an option unless I want to freeze.
The blanket solves that. He has something warm to nest in, I keep the comforter, everyone wins.
Except there is context here.
For a while now, A has had her own fuzzy blanket that she wraps him up in at bedtime. He sleeps in her bed, she crawls up around him, and neither of them seems to mind at all. It has been a whole thing. She is genuinely good at snuggling him and he clearly appreciates it.
When the new blanket arrived, A’s immediate reaction was that I was stealing her cat. She was kidding. Mostly. Or that is what I keep telling myself.
What she glossed over entirely was that Grogu would come to us regardless. The blanket was not a power move. I was just making it more comfortable for him, which is apparently all I do. M would say I am a pushover for the cat. She is not wrong.
This week he has been doing his usual routine. Sitting on someone’s lap downstairs, then migrating to the radiator around midnight because apparently it functions as his personal sauna, and then eventually making his way upstairs.
To our bed.
To the new blanket.
Except he is not picking me. He is picking M. Every time. I get none of the cat and all of the blame.
A is furious at me for a situation entirely of her own making, about a cat who is not even choosing me anyway.
Not that it matters. I am not keeping score.