Frisky Having Her Way Apr 2026

And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.

She finds the single most echoey spot in the hallway—usually right outside my bedroom door—and sings the song of her people. It is a mournful wail that translates roughly to: "I can see the bottom of my food bowl. The abyss stares back. I am wasting away to nothing but fur and spite."

I used to try to ignore it. I wore earplugs. I buried my head under a pillow. But Frisky is patient. She knows that I have to work in the morning. She knows that sleep deprivation is a torture tactic. Eventually, I shuffle out in the dark, pour a single tablespoon of kibble into her bowl, and she stops mid-yowl, sniffs it, and walks away without taking a bite. Frisky having her way

For me, that moment of clarity came at 6:00 AM on a Tuesday, and her name is Frisky.

There is a certain point in every pet owner’s life when you have to admit the truth: You don’t own the pet. The pet owns you. And honestly

Having her way extends to the witching hour. Between 2:45 and 3:15 AM, Frisky transforms from a lazy lap-warmer into a soprano performing a one-cat opera about The Great Hunger.

In a world where I have to be on time, productive, polite, and predictable, Frisky answers to no one. She naps in the sunbeam even when the laundry needs folding. She demands pets, then bites me exactly 2.5 seconds later because she is done . She lives entirely on her own terms. It is a mournful wail that translates roughly

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.