It was later that week, after the towels had been thoroughly scented with the smell of wet cat fur, that Bizness decided it was time for me to truly understand what he had endured.

I was barely settled onto the couch when he cleared his invisible throat, stomped a few muddy paw prints across my rug for emphasis, and began.

“How did you get outside?” I asked with a scowl.

“Your husband never remembers to close a door, Karen.”

I nodded. “Okay. Fair.”

“Ahem. If I could have everyone’s attention, please. Karen.”

“I’m the only one here,” I snapped.

“Exactly. And you’re barely sufficient.”

I heard him pacing dramatically in front of the fireplace.

“The winters,” he intoned gravely. “Oh, the winters were harsh. I endured snowdrifts taller than my tail. Ice storms that froze my very whiskers. Nights so cold, I was forced to fashion tiny sleeping bags out of discarded fast-food wrappers and broken dreams.”

I stifled a laugh behind a cushion.

“Food was scarce,” Bizness continued, voice thick with self-pity. “I survived on crusts of bread thrown to the birds. Half-eaten hot dogs and chicken nuggets found abandoned on the side of the road. Once — once, Karen — I was forced to eat a salad.”

He paused to let the horror sink in.

“A salad,” he whispered.

“That’s terrible,” I said solemnly.

“It was,” he said, shuddering. “No dressing. Not even a crouton for comfort.”

He sighed, and a fresh set of muddy paw prints appeared near the end table near the couch.

“I roamed from town to town, an invisible wanderer, haunting fast food joints, picnic areas, and public parks, stealing warmth from unsuspecting sunbathers. I sang songs of woe into the night—”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “You sang?”

He ignored me.

“—and yet, through all my suffering, I held onto one thing. Hope. The hope that one day, my wayward human — the woman who abandoned me and fled — would realize her mistake and come for me.”

There was a pause.

“And when she didn’t,” he added pointedly, “I realized I’d have to come find her myself. Because SOME people,” he sniffed, “can’t be trusted to remember the important things.”

Chagrinned, I nodded.

“I am a survivor, Karen. A warrior. A legend among lost felines. And yet,” he said with a long, dramatic yawn, “I ask for so little. A warm bed. A can of tuna. Perhaps a heated blanket with my name embroidered on it.”

“I don’t think you need your name embroidered on it,” I said.

“Maybe you don’t need it,” he replied darkly. “But I deserve it, Judas!”

“Wow. That was a little harsh. Just exactly how long will I be living with your scorn, cat? Days? Weeks? Years?”

“For the rest of my seven lives, Karen. Better strap in and buckle up,” he muttered as he stomped away.

“Good talk,” I called after him. “Let the cold war begin.”