Marzipan is named after Homestar Runner's girlfriend, a web comic your mom and dad used to watch for five minutes every Tuesday. She has a tightly-coiled pinky finger for a tail. Your dad shudders when his own finger hooks through it. He never imagines hooking her onto dowels, coat hangers, curtain rods, or door handles, though her tail begs for such prehensile utilitarianism.
Marzipan has four miniature tennis balls, each with a dull rattle inside. She has a piece of toy sushi hanging from a fishing pole. She has a small pocket of catnip sewed into a square of burlap. She only plays with shoestrings.
There is a four-and-a-half foot tall piece of cat furniture your mom and dad bought for a previous cat named Reu. Reu was short for "rewind," the word your mom and dad would always see after they finished watching a rented VHS together. Reu died from hepatic lipidosis. Your dad wrote a story about it and read it to a loud audience in the Black Sheep. Your mom is upset your dad spread Reu's ashes while she was at work.
Marzipan sheds all year, like pine trees. Your mom and dad wake up to find tiny, collapsed tents of hair in the living room. Your dad thumps the vacuum's air filter against the inside of the trash bin.
Marzipan has a notch in her left ear. There was a white cat living with a large, pear-shaped family. The large, pear-shaped family once knocked on your mom and dad's door to borrow their cell phone for an "emergency." Your mom and dad stopped answering the door after that. Your dad yelled when he saw the white cat. He found Marzipan's blood, urine, and feces on the front porch. Marzipan stopped going outside after that, but your mom says, "Sugarfoot" (your grandma's cat) "has a notch in her ear, too."
When your mom or dad sit on the toilet, Marzipan will come into the bathroom if the door is open. She places a concerned paw on a thigh. She meows attentively. She won't leave until the toilet flushes. Your mom and dad theorize as to what this could possibly mean.
