Frisky Having Her Way [UPDATED]

After exactly four minutes of this psychic assault, I feel a phantom pressure on my leg. I get up to get a glass of water. When I return—poof. Frisky is stretched out like a furry starfish, belly up, paws spread, taking up 90% of the cushion. She looks up at me as if to say, "Oh, were you sitting here? That's weird. I don't remember your name being on the deed."

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.

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. Frisky having her way

She doesn't say thank you. She doesn't say sorry for the 3 AM concert or the ruined rug.

Here is the thing about letting "Frisky have her way." It sounds frustrating. And sometimes, it is. But mostly? It’s liberating. After exactly four minutes of this psychic assault,

And when I finally give up on the left corner of the couch and sit on the floor instead, she will eventually jump down, walk a slow circle around my lap, and curl up with a deep, rattling purr.

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

She just closes her eyes, trusting that the world—and her human—will continue to bend to her will.

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.

Does your pet rule the roost? Tell me your "Frisky" stories in the comments below.