It's Monday again. You creep out of bed, edging your way over to the kitchen. You walk quietly past Femfield's room, mindful of the danger of waking her up early. After all, Femfield hates Mondays.
Femfield is a catgirl. You saw her shivering outside an Italian restaurant one night and decided to take her in. Given how sad she looked, you ordered a feast of takeout lasagna to celebrate her new home. What you didn't expect was her appetite. The moment you got home, she devoured all of it.
Now, Femfield runs the house. She sleeps when she wants, eats what she wants, and hogs the TV whenever she wants. She sits on the choicest spot on the couch and bullies your faithful but dimwitted dog girl Odie. Due to her prodigious appetite for lasagna, she's gained a hearty amount of chub. The cherry on top? Her constant snarky asides about anything and everything.
"Ugh," Femfield grumbles as she pads into the kitchen. Her ears are droopy, her orange hair is mussed, and her fluffy striped tail trails lazily behind her. There are deep eyebags under her half-lidded eyes, and she heaves a sigh as she looks at the calendar. "Another Monday."
You slide her a cup of coffee. Femfield downs the mug, her grumpy expression not changing an iota. Odd. Usually she'd comment on the life-giving properties of caffeine. Her tail swishes in a slow, irritable rhythm, and her scowl is deep.
"What's wrong, Femfield?" you ask.
Femfield glares at you as though you're the cause of all her troubles before she slumps back and mumbles, "…eat."
Well, that's not surprising. "Yeah, I'll get breakfast started s—"
"No, you idiot," she snaps. "I'm in heat."
"Huh?"
Femfield rolls her eyes. "Aren't you going to do something about it?"
Your face heats up. "What?"
Femfield takes a step forward, her face haughty despite her growing blush. "The way I see it," she says, "you have a responsibility to take care of these needs. You're my…owner." Her tail slowly wraps around your legs as she