Monday, 09 September 2002 | The anti-cat

When I walked in from work today, I glanced up at the top of my loft, looking for the two gray triangles that poke up like symmetrical mountain peaks, even though I knew they wouldn't be there. And I ate my dinner sitting on the couch, waiting for her to beg for the corn and cheese inside my burrito, even though I knew she wouldn't rub up against me or extend a slow-motion spread paw and hook it into my leg. Later, I curled up on the couch, leaving a spot for her, but it stayed vacant. I threw out the remains of her food and the water that I'd given her this morning and carried her bowls to the sink. She's in Raleigh by now, $75 and a plane ride later, and I hear she's uncharacteristically bitter: growling, biting, hissing, scratching, hiding, confused. Allergies are a foreign concept.