IN MY HOUSE Emily Lutz In my house you must not ring the doorbell. Ringing the doorbell is Very Upsetting and I don’t like it. I will scream at you if you ring it. I will probably scream at you anyway, but you must endure this patiently, as well as endure me trying to tackle you in my excitement when you come in the door and punching you in the face with my face. It is a Gesture of Affection. In my house, when you sit down to talk with my roommates and have cookies and tea you must drop some crumbs for me, (no really, you must, no matter what my roommates tell you it will do to my digestive system). If you don’t, I will sit in front of you and stare accusingly, you who do so trifle with my tender and easily-bruised heart by eating in front of me without sharing. In my house if you should need the bathroom you shall patiently submit to being followed and are not allowed to close the door. I must be in the bathroom with you and I must be allowed to rudely shove my head under your bottom as you do your necessary so I may smell your pee and form my own opinion on its unique bouquet (garnering insights upon which I shall remain forever mum). In my house when you depart, I will follow you to the door, trying to shove my whole body through the opening to follow you. I shall watch you go and cry pathetically as if my heart has been Irrevocably Broken, only to be mended when I glimpse the saucy flick of a tail outside and forget my terrible sense of loss in order to scream at the uninvited guest until he leaves.
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