Last July I wrote about Finian, our Maine Coon cat, and his stubborn need to be outside. For some reason he is well-behaved at the front door – as long as visitors don’t stand chatting with the storm door open. I mean, give the furry kid a break. A 10-minute open door is temptation even a well-tamed feline couldn’t resist.

But who am I kidding? A well-tamed cat? There is no such animal. Dear Richard and I are the only ones who are trained in this relationship. We have learned to work around Finian’s strict schedule. His day directing us begins early.

If Finian decides to sleep with us – never a given – he allows us to sleep until 5 a.m. We like getting up after 7. After this many years of early mewling, he should know that it will get him chucked out. But he still hasn’t caught on.

If he doesn’t sleep with us, he is outside the bedroom door at 7 a.m. – waiting. The moment Richard opens the door, King Finian sprints to the kitchen – like a pace car – checking to see if Richard is following. “C’mon, c’mon, speed it up here pal, I need my breakfast.” Richard slogs over to the Keurig before heading to the laundry room, the cat food stash, and the empty cat dish.

I almost always make my appearance after Richard. He makes my coffee while Finian makes it onto my lap. Mandatory grooming happens daily for this long-haired beast. He cocks his head to allow my brushing then gradually turns as I work my way around his neck. Routine. The remainder of his back, sides, and belly are not so routine, but we usually both survive. Unscathed. There’s an occasional attempt at a hand bite if I linger too long over a tangle.

He only allows my grooming because of the anticipated snacks. He sits between my knees as I count out six treats on each thigh. He always looks up as he scarfs down #12, hoping for a generous bonus. No dice. And by the way, if we don’t complete the brushing, there is no snack time. My rule. It’s the only upper hand I hold. Some days the morning routine is slow, depending upon his majesty’s mood.

He returns to me at 2 p.m. for his afternoon snack. When I’m not home in the afternoon he awaits my return at the front door. “Where have you been? And what were you thinking not providing my afternoon snack?” His afternoon nap follows. His dinner is precisely at 6. He sits and stares at Richard beginning a little after 5.

At exactly 10 each night, he returns to my lap. Evening snack time. I don’t remember exactly when Richard and I were in training for Finian’s schedule, but the fluffy Bossman hasn’t altered the schedule in years. I don’t know when he swallowed the clock that goes off in his tummy five times a day. This furball has an innate alarm that silently calls him to his next vittles. We merely obey. It’s easier that way.

But two nice things have just happened with our bossy beast. Finian shocked me when I returned from my recent trip. Like any toddler reacts when their parents come home, he is either clingy or indifferent. “I’ll show her she can’t leave me and get away with it.” I have had pets like that.

Instead, rather than giving me the punishment snub, Finian suddenly decided I’m worth paying attention to. For the first time in his eight years, he has become cuddly. He is now sitting in my lap for an hour or two before his evening snack. AND, for the first time EVER, he is purring. We’ve NEVER heard him purr, and suddenly we have audible nighttime contentment. I am thrilled.

The other nice happening involves his catio. This is the screenhouse-on-wheels we bought last summer. He wanted to be out and hated being left behind. So, being his obliging servants, we provided a safe way for him to enjoy being on the deck with us.

He hated it. He fought us. He mewled. He paced. “You can’t put me this close to birds and chipmunks and not let me explore.” The whining was constant. This year? Instant love. Huh ????

He’s stretched out in the little hammock near the clear roof with a wide view of the yard’s animal life. He’s content. He takes his afternoon snacks on the top shelf. He enjoys his cool water bowl. He even curled up on the pillow.

You know that old saying, “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy?” Well, Finian is suddenly one happy critter … so summer looks happy for us servants. So far.

It only took 8 years.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren, Pa.