I satisfied all of his needs. I'd rub his thick beard and massage his tense shoulders after a long day of chopping wood. I'd lay near the fire as he stroked my soft chest. At night, I'd lay my contented head on his thick fingers. He felt warm and strong. I always felt safe and loved when he was near me. The winter came suddenly that year, and he was home more often during the long dark Wisconsin nights. He'd smell smoky and musty after taking off his fleece-lined coat and long johns. I'd sniff them as he hung them close to the fire to dry off the wet remnants of the thick December snow. Often he'd have the sweet smell of maple sap on his canvas gloves. I was happiest in the morning as he slept. I'd wake up before him and rest my head on his heaving chest. His chest was furry and warm and strong, and smelled like fresh sweat and pine trees.
In mid-December, the odor on the collar of his leather coat was unnatural, floral and delicate. I knew then about, her. My nostrils flared as I sat next to him on the blue couch in front of the fire, sizing up the situation. I stepped on his lap, walked up his flannel one-piece pajamas, and pressed my forehead against his burly beard. I brushed myself across the jet black bristles with a few grey streaks. Little did he know that my affections were a pretext to give him a more astute judgment. He was terrible at grooming his facial fur, so I gave his coarse beard a few licks to help him straighten out the kinks. I knew from my advanced senses -- he had canoodled with a cheap whore. I could taste the pheromones of another woman on his face. He would not escape without knowing my displeasure.
I turned around so that my exposed butthole was near his face, and I backed up, all the way up. I curled my tail forward so he could get the full view of my wrathful stink-eye. I proceeded to sit my butt on his mouth. For extra effect, I wiggled my tail, hoping I could rub my butt-smell to cover up the smell of whatever whore had touched my burly lumberjack.
He picked me up in his strong arms and looked into my pretty green eyes. "What is wrong with you?" he asked me as he set me on the cushion beside him. As if he didn't know. His lies may work on whatever bimbo had forced a kiss on him unwillingly, but he couldn't lie to me, his true love. I could smell her cheap perfume and her disgusting body odor. The pheromones told me immediately that she was ugly and stupid. I stuck my head between the cushions on the couch like an ostrich and flicked my tail back and forth to make my displeasure abundantly clear. I was done talking with the cheater. He tried to placate me by scratching with his coarse fingernails that sweet spot on the top of my spine, but it would never work. However, it did feel good. I started purring and promptly forgot what it was I was angry about. He always knew exactly how to touch me in all the right ways.
The next day he had slept several minutes past breakfast. Not wanting him to start his day late, I gently stepped on his chest, and I combed my neck hair on his prickly chin. He still didn't budge. I determined he was dreaming about that whore. I sat down in the Sphynx-position on his chest and put my paw on his exposed throat. I felt around for that familiar beating of his Jugular vein. Knowing he needed me for extra motivation that morning, I extended one claw until it pierced his skin. As it went through the layers of epidermis to the pain sensors below he awoke with a start. I pulled my paw back before he saw me. I didn't need the validation of him knowing what a good partner I was for him, by making sure he didn't sleep through his alarm clock. He raised his head up, and I stared in his cloudy blue eyes. His thick brow looked at my large feline eyes and the delicate whiskers on my striped face. I then saw it -- lip gloss. She had left cheap strawberry-scented Chapstick on his lips. Unable to contain myself, I slapped him across the face with my paw and stormed out of the room. Next time I'd use claws. In the kitchen, I waited by my bowl. I refused to give him the privilege of waking up gently to one of my special abdominal massages.
I glared at him without blinking as he filled my bowl with dry kibble. I still thought about glaring at him longer as my face was in my bowl eating, but that morning he decided to give me Fancy Feast. As I was eating, I forgot what I was angry about.
I spent the day doing my daily duties of licking myself and keeping the cushions warm for my Hooman. Maybe it was just a one-time thing. He had gotten drunk and shared a pity-kiss with a lonely piece of trash from the bar outside of Mazomanie. I had fallen asleep as I heard the key in the door. But unlike other evenings, I heard two sets of footsteps. One set was cloppy, as if he was bringing home a two-legged goat. I knew she was there. How dare he bring another woman home with him? Did all of my cuddles mean nothing to him? Were my paw massages on his bladder not satisfying?
