After all the chaos of recent days, the car ride, the abduction, the strange lady poking at my belly - I decided that today would be different. Peaceful. Civilised. A day of quiet recovery for a cat of my stature. My revenge could wait. I’m not saying I hold grudges… I just file them alphabetically. Forever.

You’d think betrayal would come with thunder and drama. Instead, it arrived softly — in the form of breakfast

Morning light spilled across the hallway like a spotlight on destiny.There it was again… the staircase. Our old enemy. The overly complicated human invention.

Morning began, as all great disasters do, with curiosity. We gathered at the base of the staircase - our Mount Everest, the ultimate mystery. My brother crouched low, eyes locked on the first step like a soldier about to storm enemy lines. My sister twitched her tail, ready for glory. And me? I supervised, naturally.

Dinner time arrived, and at last, Ben presented the evening’s sustenance. My whiskers twitched with anticipation… only to droop in disappointment. A bowl of wet slop and a bowl of crunchy pebbles. Really? This was my grand feast? Did he mistake me for a common alley cat?

The decision had been made. All three of us were going. My heroic escape had not only saved me from the plastic prison, it had saved my siblings too. Victory! Or so I thought… until the next challenge revealed itself.

This morning, I awoke with a certain… gravitas. Today was no ordinary day, I could feel it in my whiskers. Something was coming. A shift in the wind, a change in the air, the promise of destiny. Naturally, I prepared by stretching dramatically, yawning loudly, and then imagining the glorious home that surely awaited me.

Todays breakfast was served and unlike the recent chaos of sliding bowls, flying whiskers, and Karen stepping in the wet slop, today we ate like proper little felines. Each bowl remained (mostly) in its rightful place, and I even managed to enjoy my meal without my sister trying to steal bites from the corner. A rare victory in itself.

Breakfast is supposed to be sacred. A calm ritual. A time for reflection, nourishment, and perhaps plotting mischief for later. But in this house, breakfast is war.

Today began with the smell of freshly folded laundry. Karen had been bustling about, humming to herself as she carried a basket piled high with clothes - warm, clean, and, most importantly, undefended. She set it down in the middle of the room, clearly unaware of the tactical error she had just made. To her, it was laundry. To us, it was a fortress begging to be conquered.

It was a peaceful morning - me, lounging like the royalty I am, saving my strength for important matters such as “second breakfast.” And then my sister, in her infinite wisdom, decided to turn the living room into a circus tent.

The morning begins the same way it always does, with my sister turning into a hurricane. She’s bouncing off the furniture, ambushing shadows, and attempting parkour stunts that would make even the most reckless squirrel shake its head in pity. I, of course, remain dignified. Or at least I try to, while she ricochets off my side for the third time before breakfast.

My life was already going downhill thanks to that wet slop Karen insists is food. Every morning, it sits there in the bowl, staring at me, daring me to eat it. And yes, I nibble, because survival, but let's be clear: this is not cuisine.

My life was perfect. Truly. At two months old, I had it all: endless games with my lunatic sister, naps beside my boring brother, warm milk from mum, and only one recurring challenge - avoiding Karen’s colossal feet. That was my only hardship. Simple. Manageable. Life was good. But then came that day. The day when things started to go downhill...