I give her the Queenie backstory, and Dreya lays out a plan of positive reinforcement, consistent boundaries, a scratch pad, calming techniques, and something called clicker therapy. The whole time, Queenie sits curled on my lap like an angel… until Dreya rolls out a crate for a test run.
Queenie leaps on top and hisses like she’s auditioning forThe Exorcist.
“Oh my.” Dreya recoils. “I see what you mean.”
We spend the next thirty minutes trying to coax her inside and get nothing but theatrics. Flinging her body like a toddler throwing a tantrum at the mall. After the fourth attempt, Dreya suggests a chamomile diffuser and wine.
“Can cats have wine?” I ask, all for spiking girlfriend’s water dish.
“I meant for you.”
Queenie glares. I sigh, wondering if it’s hopeless and I’m just stuck with a diabolical cat. But I make a follow-up appointment, pick up the items from the store, and grab a bottle of Chardonnay for myself.
At home, I unload the bags and add chamomile oil to the diffuser and the diluted mixture to a spray bottle that I mist around her crate. Lured by the scent, Queenie inches forward. I press the clicker as instructed—the noise apparently more effective than verbal affirmations—and reward her with a treat. I do the same when she sniffs the crate. Then, as if she’s onto me, that’s as far as she’s willing to go. But I feel somewhat encouraged.
I leave her occupied with a stuffed shrimp toy shaped like a croissant while I hop in the shower, rinsing off the street grime and boob sweat. Under the water spray, inspiration strikes. I hurry from the shower, barely dry off as I rush past Queenie wrestling Spider-Man, and head to my drafting table.
Wrapped in a towel, I drop into the chair, and on a fresh sheet of paper, I immortalize Queenie’s reign of terror in charcoal.
First, I sketch a cartoon of a frazzled woman chugging wine, with spinning equations above her head, and a cat grinning devilishly beside her. Below the graphic:
Cat Mom Math
Wine + More Wine = Survival
The next one is of a woman holding a goblet, surrounded by toppled plants, a mauled sneaker, and scratched furniture, the cat smirking proudly. It reads:
Cat Moms Survive on Sauvignon
The third one is a minimalist line art of a golden retriever with an adorable grin, sitting beside a cat giving maximum side-eye.
If I Wanted Affection, I Would’ve Gotten a Dog.
And finally, for the raw truth.
I sketch a woman strapped to a chair, the leash wrapped around her, the end held by a cat wearing a crooked crown.
Held Hostage by a Furry Diva.
Queenie wanders in mid-sketch. I pick her up and rub her head. “Thanks to you,The Cat Mom Collectionis officially born.” Merch and social media ideas are already lighting up my brain.
Later that evening, I’m curled in the corner of the couch, glass ofwine in hand, catching up onHarlemepisodes when my iPad rings at ten thirty. Dice. Like clockwork, every night since I got back. I hit accept. My insides play hopscotch as he appears on the screen—black tank, durag, lounging on his couch, one arm folded beneath his head. The pose lifts his chest and exposes his underarm. Casual, but intimate.
“Hey, Web,” he says with that slow, sinful grin.
“Hey, Jones,” I reply, pausing the show. “How was Whet Wednesday?”
“The usual. Steady, but not jumping. I suggested a midweek party. Hump Up the Volume. Maurice nearly had a heart attack.”
“I can just imagine. But I think it’s a great idea.”
“I’ll keep working on him. Come up with other theme names that might pass the prude test.”
“Don’t compromise on your brand or water it down. You’re edgy and funky. Push for what you want.” Or take your talents elsewhere. But I don’t say that.
“Just tryna keep the peace right now. Don’t want to make it difficult or put you in the middle.”
“I’m not worried about that. I think Maurice will come around about us… eventually. But if he doesn’t, it changes nothing. You don’t have to soft pedal to keep the peace for me.”
