The woman enters the house cautiously, softly muttering,

"Mittens? I'm your new catsitter, I hope you don't mind..."

I'm sitting on the sofa, straight backed. I'd never be scared of a mellow old woman like her. 

She looks at me and I look at her.

She comes up to me and pets me, testing me. 

I just look at her haughtily.

She talks oodle coodley nonsense in a slightly louder tone. Then louder, until she's shouting,

"MITTENS IS SUCH A GOOD BOY!!! OH YES HE IS!!! OOCHLE COOCHLE COOOO!!!!!"

She doesn't bother to pet me harder, though, and she doesn't notice the look I'm giving her.

She takes her hand off me and snickers.

"Good."

I get to know what that was all about the very next day. Some more old people come in and push the furniture to the edges of the room, and soon the room is filled with alchohol, disco lights, loud pounding music, and more derecript old people than can comfortably fit in the living room.

Fortunately the catsitter had the foresight to move my litter and food to the bedroom, but the bedroom is also open to the guests. I just can't get away.

Wasn't this woman supposed to just be visiting to give me food and water and play with me? She wasn't even supposed to be a live-in catsitter and she's still making a mess of the place.

If it still felt like my house I'd be mad and give them what for, but this is Mittens's problem.

But, contrary to my expectations, the catsitter puts it all back in order. She even washes the sheets on the bed. And she's very diligent in her duties to me, too, changing my food and water. After that she takes out a fishing rod toy and wiggles it around in front of me.

I obligingly chase it, knowing this the only entertainment and exercise I'm going to get all day.

"I would have sworn you'd hate me and sulk!" she says.

Well, I definitely wouldn't hire this woman to be my catsitter, but there's no point refusing the only source of entertainment I'm going to get. I've tried playing with my new mouse toy by myself, and it doesn't compare to having someone wave the fishing rod for me.

There are parties every day of the week until Mittens gets back, but every time the catsitter cleans up so that no trace remains.

By the end of it I am thoroughly glad to see Mittens home.

"Has Mittens been good, Cathy?" he asks the catsitter.

She laughs like a witch.

"Oh yes! He's quite a well-adjusted cat! I'd love to babysit him again." 

Please no.

"I brought someone to see you, Mittens." Mittens tells me, then steps aside to let them file in.

Stephanie. My sister.

And her husband, Tim, letting out a small "Whoo!" at Mittens's posh place.

And her daughter and son Kyle and Emily, looking small amid the expensive subtly rearranged furniture.