The cat, Javier Pussycatsa Pantalunes (aka Kittypants), sleeps at the foot of my bed every night. His day consists of waking me up to go to work, waiting for me to climb down off my loft and open the door to the terrace, racing out to the terrace to see what's what, slunking back inside when there's nothing new on the terrace, eating breakfast with me, aggressively attacking every piece of furniture I own, racing up and down from the loft over and over and over again, and finally chilling out in various fav spots all over the flat including the bathtub, the foot of the bed, the couch, the top of the bookcase, under the end table, and the computer chair.
     All this activity, or lack thereof, would lead one to believe that my cat is happy. This however would be a wrong impression. It would also be wrong to fall prey to my attempts at deflecting the validity of his spite. All told, cat and I have been in transit since early December, nearly four and a half months now. Before that we were only settled for five months after I deported him from his birthplace of Portland, Oregon to take him with me to LA. In the last nine months he has spent close to two weeks in a car, 13 hours in a plane, at least a week on a train, and 10 to 12 hours on a boat. Also in that time, he has lived in thirteen different living spaces including three on the west coast and nine in western and central Europe. He is also on a strict regimen of diet kitty food.
     He shows his dissatisfaction in one of several ways. For one, he is slowly, practically imperceptibly destroying the carpet. Secondly, he refuses to respond to all attempts at any type of play, opting instead to glare menacingly at me from various angles above my head.