The shape of my body doesn’t really accommodate rigorous Latin dancing. Parts of me jiggle and shake as I salsa across the room that I’d rather not let other people see.

I reserve my family’s downstairs for one hour every night. During this hour entering my domain without any kind of warning could be a terrible mistake in which you would suffer several awkward minutes of my heated glare, judiciously watching you do whatever activity you are doing that is wasting my precious work out time. These curves won’t tame themselves. Time is calories people.

The truth of the matter is I would rather be caught in my underwear than let someone see me Zumba. However, I do make exceptions.

I first met the love of my life when pulling into the garage after a day of shopping. He was curled up on the work counter in front of the windows, staring at us with a menacing glare that said, “Touch me and I’ll eat your kidneys.” I approached the fuzzy ball of Satan cautiously. He didn’t flinch away from me as I tentatively reached out my hand to stroke the top of his fat head. However, as I was about to make contact, my first attempts at affection were batted away by a spiked paw and a fit of hisses, but upon retracting, the bipolar cat rolled over onto his side and began to purr violently. Being the fool I am, I made a second attempt and was met with more hissing followed by the sound of a pissed off motor boat. Fool me twice.

The weeks which followed consisted of me praying the cat would either leave, or die. Neither of these things happened. Despite the fact he seemed to hate humans as well as our other two cats and my golden retriever, the fat tabby was making this his permanent home. My mother wouldn’t do anything about him because she is a sucker for strays, so to my misery the cat stayed, and I stayed well away from him until, as the plot demands, my mother decided to let the hell cat inside. “It’s getting cold outside,” She defended. Yeah whatever, the cat is from hell; he creates his own heat. At any rate I steered clear of the beast, and resumed my daily activities which included my private eight o’clock session of Zumba.

I shut the sliding door at the bottom of the stairs and proceeded to the living room where I stopped cold after making eye contact with the intruder on the couch. The demon cat was lounging, stretched out luxuriously, as if he owned the place. I eyed him as I walked slowly passed, and gave him a look that said, “You can stay here, but you had better not try anything.” I began my workout video. I tangoed across the carpet, bootie circled, and all of the other moves which may or may not be made up, while occasionally glancing at the cat.

Suddenly he was standing on the couch. I asked him what the heck he thought he was doing as he jumped down and trotted over to me. I held my ground, or rather whatever dance move I was doing at the time, as he started to go in and out of my legs. If I shimmied right, he followed. If I shimmied left, he followed. Everywhere I danced he danced with me.

I decided to test this after a while by walking around the downstairs, in and out of my room, my sister’s room, and the bathroom. The cat followed me. I went back to the living room with him prancing behind me.

We stared at each other for a while; one daring the other to make a move. I hesitated a moment before slowly reaching down and touching the top of his head. The effect was immediate. The furry demon facade melted as he pushed his head into my hand and purred. It seemed he had decided I was a worthy human. It must have been my expert dance moves.

Since then Allister, the tabby cat, has been my dance partner…and my cat.