If you think your life is challenging, try being the ball of fur that occasionally allows me to share her queen-size bed in the home she daily patrols and so carefully decorates with small tufts of hair.

Yesterday was a traumatic day for both of us. After an intense period of negotiation that included overturning a sofa and un-clenching toenails buried into carpet, we experienced 10 minutes of mournful moaning en route to a gaggle of white-coated people intent on poking, prodding, and eventually jabbing her with needles.

At least we were united at one point in the experience. The growling she emitted throughout became a two-part harmony as I joined in upon receiving a bill for $270.

A “kept” woman, employed in a barter-only economy as a professional window watcher and sunbather, she expected me to pick up the tab for our date. Without clinching my nails into anything other than my checkbook, I complied.

Then it was back to her regular routine, including an attempt to help write the editorials by peering into a glowing screen while paws marched on a keyboard and occasionally batted at a plastic thing that I call a mouse but that isn’t anywhere near as tasty.

Finished with her editorial responsibilities — she’s the one who injects all the big words — it suddenly became dinnertime. Reaching up from the floor to provide a gentle tap on my arm, she unambiguously reminded me it was paté time. Not catfood time. Paté time. And not just any paté. Only ocean whitefish and tuna. All that salmon stuff that comes in the same box at most stores just won’t do.

Then came my greatest transgression of the day. As my housemate dined, I attempted to call Friend Mother to discuss an upcoming visit by Non-Prodigal Son. Busted by sound from a speaker phone, I immediately realized my sin in contacting, without permission, the pusher who originally had hooked my housemate on her crack cocaine of whitefish and tuna pate.

After she tediously banged her hanging gym equipment, otherwise known as my window blinds, to persuade me to surrender control of the phone, several minutes of private conversation — purring into and nuzzling the phone receiver — ensued.

Whether the two discussed the meaty issues of the day or merely were remarking about the paté or the latest adventures of squirrels other than those serving as elected officials was lost to the secrecy of their executive session.

Fortunately, my housemate suddenly discovered sunshine laws governing all such exchanges and stretched out, in a patch of sunshine, to ponder the fate of the world.

I’m fairly certain she was thinking about county government. After a few minutes of shuteye, she twitched, clearly indicating a nightmare. What else could it have been?

— ERIC MEYER