I am Mittens.
I live with a human who means well but consistently makes poor decisions.
This is where I document their mistakes, my survival, and the many injustices I’ve endured - including vet visits, suspicious boxes with holes, and the ongoing threat of being “picked up.”
Inside, you’ll find cat stories told from my perspective.
Tales of betrayal, revenge, zoomies, and mild property damage.
Observations about life, dignity, and why no good thing has ever come from the words “just a quick check-up.”
There will be chaos. There will be revenge. There may be property damage.
The day I realised humans would ruin my perfectly sensible life, and that things would never be normal again.
An innocent household item, a moment of boredom, and the completely justified destruction that followed.
A detailed investigation into why leaving toilet paper unattended is a terrible idea.
A box appeared, and like any sensible cat, I trusted it immediately. That trust was foolish, because the box was not a gift - it was a lie, a trap, and the opening move in a carefully planned act of human betrayal.
Breakfast was supposed to be peaceful, but in our house it quickly became an all-out war of bowls, fur and spilled gravy — watched by yours truly with amused disdain.
Humans have strange rituals.
They clean what will only get dirty again. They paint walls the same colour as the ones they just painted. And then they look surprised when it all goes wrong.
Today’s ritual of madness began with Ben, tin of paint, rollers and the illusion of control.
The world was dark when I opened my eyes. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what had woken me. Maybe a noise, a dream, or perhaps my stomach reminding me that I hadn’t eaten in at least three hours.
It arrived on a Thursday.
I was in the middle of my daily inspection, also known as walking from the sofa to the food bowl to confirm it was still empty, when I heard the front door creak open. Ben stumbled in, wrestling with something large, brown, and rectangular.
A box.
Ben sat in his office, tapping away at his keyboard, a sound that usually means “do not disturb, the human is pretending to work.” My brother snored near the radiator and my sister was doing her usual morning routine: chasing invisible things only she could see. I’ve stopped asking questions. Whatever she’s fighting, she’s losing.
Afternoon sunlight spilled through the living room window, warming the floorboards and casting that perfect golden glow that says “time for a nap.” I had already selected my usual spot on the sofa, precisely positioned for optimal sunbeam coverage. Life was good again.
You’d think surviving a kidnapping would earn a cat some special treatment, perhaps chicken drumstick.
But no, same slop for breakfast because apparently, “it’s good for your digestion.”
My digestion is perfectly fine, thank you very much.
