As soon as I sat down on the couch last night,

Miss Priss hopped from the ottoman to her favorite spot right next to me. I picked up a book of poetry from the coffee table and held it open with my left hand while my right hand scratched the white Himalayan head at my side.

The radio was set to a classical station at a low volume, so as not to disturb the neighbors.

I had cleaned her litter box, opened a can of Fancy Feast, checked for vomit on the carpet and made notes for her owner when he returns. Now it was time for my favorite part: pampering the house cat.

Miss Priss purred while I stroked her long, white coat and read aloud from her owner’s poetry collection. She closed her eyes, rubbed the sides of her face across my hand, and rolled over on her back, inviting me to rub the royal tummy.

I scratched, rubbed, and stroked my way through  ten poems and about as many concertos and sonatas until a still-purring Miss Priss rose to her feet and padded off to the bedroom. She always tells me when it’s time for me to go.

After replacing the book and turning out the living room light, I bid her good night  and told her she’s a good girl before shutting the front door behind me.

Gosh, pet sitting is a hard job, but someone’s gotta do it.

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