The next morning, over my third cup of tea and while picking yet another muddy paw print off the counter, I heard Bizness clear his throat.

“Ahem. Karen.”

I braced myself. “Stop calling me Karen.”

“I have decided,” he said solemnly, “to forgive you.”

I blinked. “Really? Just like that?”

He let out a long-suffering sigh that somehow managed to sound both regal and insulted. “No, Karen. Not ‘just like that.’ Forgiveness must be earned.“

I sipped my tea warily. “Okay… what do I have to do?”

There was a pause, and then in a voice dripping with calculated sweetness, he said:

“First, I require that you officially designate a holiday in my honor. Bizness Day.“

“…Bizness Day?”

“Yes. A full day of festivities. Tuna buffets. Nap marathons. Public readings of my greatest achievements.”

“I don’t think the government is going to approve—”

“Secondly,” he steamrolled right over me, “you must erect a statue in the front yard. Nothing ostentatious. Just… life-sized. Or slightly larger. Granite would be acceptable.”

“Bizness, you’re invisible. No one would know what the statue is!”

“All the better,” he said smugly. “It’ll be modern art.”

I rubbed my temples. “Anything else?”

He tapped an invisible paw thoughtfully on the floor, leaving three more muddy prints.

“Yes. Effective immediately, you shall address me as ‘His Majesty Bizness, First of His Name, King of Socks, Ruler of the Laundry Basket, and Protector of Snacks.'”

I dropped my head onto the counter. “I can’t say all that every time I talk to you.”

“Fine,” he sniffed. “You may shorten it to ‘Your Majesty’ in casual conversation.”

I sighed into the granite countertop.

“And in return for these very modest requests,” Bizness said, puffing up with pride, “I will graciously resume my role as your invisible companion, supervisor of baking activities, and occasional mysterious midnight disturbance.”

There was no winning.

“Fine,” I said. “Welcome home, Your Majesty.”

I could feel him beam — an actual wave of smugness radiating through the kitchen.

“And don’t forget,” he added, “Bizness Day is coming up. Better start planning the parade.”

(Little does my invisible trouble maker know that the Bizness Day will coincide quite nicely with our local Memorial Day Parade.)

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.”