PsychoCat

Let me tell you the harrowing tale of a cat, and the woman who had volunteered to housesit said cat. That woman is me.

I’ll start by explaining that I’m very much a dog person. And I remain staunchly so. You’ll understand why soon enough.

My mission? Take care of a cat for a few weeks and stay in a townhouse in Harlem.

Do I like hanging out with cats? Not particularly. Do I like paying New York rent? Even less. Sacrifices had to be made.

Besides, I should give cats a chance, right?

But for the stick I make about cats, deep down, I don’t hate them. They are living creatures. Occasionally, some, have been known to be cute. Don’t tell the dogs I said that.

Anyway, I get to the townhouse—caught in that liminal space between gentrified Harlem and its more edgy roots.

I’m introduced to the cat, who seems pretty nice at first. I’m told she’s chill, and when I warn the owners that I’m not an early riser, they say that’s fine—I can feed her whenever I wake up.

So, our first night together—it’s kinda …