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As I slid off my coat and pulled a hanger from the closet, I noticed Gracie glaring at me sanctimoniously. Gracie had an uncannily strong drunk detector for a nine-year-old cat, and her you stayed out past curfew face was something to behold. It told me she knew I'd had too much to drink on a Tuesday night and lied to my family about having a boyfriend. It also told me I should have been home to play with her hours ago.
"Meow," Gracie lectured.
I couldn't even be mad. "I deserve that," I agreed.
"Meow," Gracie said again, with feeling.
Okay, that was a bridge too far. "Look. I've had a really rough day." Part of me knew it was ridiculous to get into an argument with a cat. The rest of me needed Gracie to understand.
Instead of understanding, Gracie chose to jump onto the kitchen counter where Sophie put my mail.
Right there, on top of the spring issue of the University of Chicago alumni magazine and the new issue of Cat Fanciers was the wedding invitation Mom had said was coming.
I looked helplessly at Gracie, who seemed to have given up on judging my life choices in favor of bathing her right front paw.
"I don't want to open it," I told her.
Instead of backing me up, Gracie signaled this conversation was over by jumping off the counter and sauntering over to my living room couch. One downside to having a nonhuman roommate was when I needed someone to validate me, I was usually out of luck.
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