I hear the clatter of my kitchen window and know she's home for the night. Cheryl, my cat-girl, is home. I don't know why she insists on coming in the kitchen window, it's like living in a Beatles’ song, only with the wrong room. I gave her her own key, but she lost it, so I left the kitchen door unlocked, but she refused to use it. "I might as well come in the front door!" she said. Like that would be so bad. But what can you do with a cat-girl?

I thought long and hard about leaving the door unlocked for the cat-girl. Not that I live in an unsafe neighborhood, but it was just weird, leaving the door unlocked while Wilma and I slept. I think someone tried to break in once, if you can break in an unlocked door. I wound up calling 911, not for the police, but an ambulance. It seemed this guy got attacked by something that "musta been nine feet tall! With huge teeth! And claws! Man, it was a bear!" Animal Control came out the next day. They didn't find any sign of a nine foot bear, so that was the end of that. Cheryl was insufferably smug for days after that. It didn't feel so strange leaving the door unlocked after that, not that she ever used the door.

Out of habit, I check the clock when she comes in. It’s a little after midnight, kind of early for her. I can only hope she hasn't been drinking. It's easy to tell when she'd been drinking, she puts The Brian Setzer Orchestra in the CD player and plays "The Dirty Boogie", loud. It's not so bad at 11:00 or so. Two a.m. is less funny, I have to get up for work in the morning, after all. The time she came in at 4:00 and decided to dance on the kitchen table with the song on "repeat" was too much and I wound up squirting her with the fire extinguisher. That didn't go over so well. There was no more dancing at 4:00 in the morning though.

I hear some stumbling around and sure enough, "The Dirty Boogie". Then I hear another voice. She's never brought a friend home before, I figure I should go check things out. I know what one cat-girl can get into after all. Cheryl's dancing around the room in that loose-jointed way she has and her friend is going through my CD's. Obviously another cat-girl. This one isn't moving in too, not if I have anything to say about it. I didn't have anything to say about Cheryl moving in but I'll just have to be firm this time. Gods help me.

Cheryl's friend could be her sister, they look so much alike -- only completely different. The new girl is taller by a good six inches and narrower through the hip and shoulder. Her black hair is cut short. Not nearly as cute as my Cheryl, not that I'm biased at all. When I get Cheryl's attention, I wave her over. The new girl sees me, but ignores me. Cat-girls, they're like that. I tried to be subtle about things, but somehow subtle doesn't seem to take, I should know better than to be subtle. After I get assured the new girl, I never do learn her name, isn't staying, she’s just visiting, I go back to bed leaving the two to their fun. It's just all part of living with a cat-girl.

I found Cheryl in my bed one time. Not that I'd ever mind that, it just never happened, not like that anyway. I'd just gotten back from a trip, just a couple of days. Putting my things away in my room, the cat-girl raised her head off my pillow. Blinking sleep out of her eyes, it was only two in the afternoon after all, she rolled over spilling the covers off her. She was dressed, as far as I could tell, only in one of my old t-shirts. "Welcome home," she purred. Then she rolled onto her back and threw out her arms and arched her back, stretching like only a cat-girl can. I got a little distracted there, but I heard her say "I missed you," and then she smiled her amazing smile at me. I was more than a little touched. Then she added "Because we're out of those chocolate cookies I like. The ones with the double creme centers," and fell back in my bed, gigging.

Cat-girls, ya gotta love 'em.

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