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.
The day starts with my usual routine of being ambushed by my deranged sister. She pounces on me before I'm even fully awake, treating my tail like some kind of trophy to be conquered. "Good morning to you too, lunatic," I mutter, but she's already ricocheted off the wall and is now attacking a dust mote with the intensity of a warrior.
My brother, naturally, observes this chaos with the enthusiasm of a sleeping rock. He blinks slowly as if movement itself is beneath him.
I attempt a dignified stretch, only to have my sister barrel into my side. We tumble across the floor in what she probably thinks is "playing" but what I consider "assault." She leaps onto my back, I shake her off, she bounces back like a rubber ball. Meanwhile, my brother has relocated to a sunny spot and resumed his meditation on nothingness.
After the morning slop (I mean breakfast) I'm plotting my usual schedule of judging Karen's life choices when she appears with something new. A box. Not just any box, oh no. This one is filled with weird, grainy stuff. It looks like the sand I once tried to chew on (don't ask), but it smells… suspicious.
Karen, in all her infinite wisdom, decides the best way to explain this contraption is to plop me inside it. "This is your litter box, Mittens!" she announces, as if I should be grateful for this prison of pebbles.
I glare at her. She beams at me. "Go on, Mittens!" she says, like this is some grand adventure.
Really? THIS is my future? Standing in a box of tiny rocks?
Pathetic...
My sister, of course, thinks this is the most fascinating thing ever invented. The moment Karen releases me from my sandy captivity, she's diving in headfirst. "Look at me! Look at me!" she seems to shriek as she flings litter everywhere. She treats it like her personal sandbox, digging to what I assume she believes is the center of the earth. Karen calls her "a natural." I call her an environmental disaster.
My brother's approach is entirely different. Karen places him in the box, and he simply... sits. Doesn't move. Doesn't dig. Doesn't even acknowledge the box exists. He stares straight ahead with that glazed expression that says, "If I pretend this isn't happening, maybe it will stop happening." Honestly, I've never respected him more.
The rest of the morning is punctuated by more box sessions. After each meal - plop, into the box. After each nap - box time. After my sister's latest rampage through Karen's yarn collection - you guessed it, box.
Around midday, while I'm contemplating the meaninglessness of existence, my sister discovers she can leap from the sofa directly into the litter box, sending a shower of granules across Karen's clean floor. Karen is less enthusiastic about this development, but my sister is already planning her next aerial assault.
My brother, meanwhile, has perfected the art of selective hearing. When Karen calls "litter box time," he somehow becomes deaf, blind, and possibly incorporeal. I watch in admiration as he phases through Karen's grabbing hands like a ghost.But mum, of course, ruins everything by demonstrating how it's done. She hops in gracefully, does a few expert scratches, and then covers her business like it's the most natural thing in the world. I stare in disbelief. Mum, you traitor. How could you?
The afternoon brings more sibling chaos. My sister has discovered that the litter granules make excellent projectiles, launching them at my brother's head with sniper-like precision. He endures this assault with Buddhist patience, occasionally flicking an ear to dislodge a particularly well-aimed grain. I, being the intellectual of the family, critique her technique while dodging the crossfire.
But instincts are tricky things. This evening, after Karen drops me in post-slop, I feel the urge. Against my better judgment, I try it. My sister pauses her excavation project to watch. My brother opens one eye - unprecedented attention from him. Scratch, squat, scratch again. Done. Easy.
And then - the shocker. Karen squeals with delight and reaches into her pocket, producing something small and brown. She holds it out to me with that insufferable grin of hers. "Good boy, Mittens! Here's a treat!"
A treat? What sorcery is this? I eye the mysterious pebbles with deep suspicion. After the wet slop betrayal and the box of pebbles incident, I'm not exactly trusting Karen's judgment on what constitutes "good" for me.
But the smell... oh, the smell hits me like a revelation. Rich, savory, with hints of something that actually resembles real food. Not the sad, soggy disappointment I've grown accustomed to. This smells like... like what food should smell like.
I approach cautiously, nose twitching. My sister has stopped her digging entirely, transfixed by this development. Even my brother's second eye has cracked open. Karen holds perfectly still, probably afraid I'll bolt if she moves.
I sniff the treat delicately. The aroma is intoxicating. Against every instinct screaming "it's probably another trick," I extend my tongue for the tiniest taste.
Sweet whiskers of wonder.
This isn't just food – this is ambrosia. This is what the gods must feast upon. The flavor explodes across my tongue like a symphony of deliciousness. Crunchy on the outside, with a burst of meaty goodness that makes my eyes widen in shock. I practically inhale the rest of it, then immediately start looking for more.
Karen laughs, actually laugh, at my expression. "You like that, don't you, Mittens?"
Like it? LIKE IT? Woman, I would perform circus tricks for another one of these magical pebbles. But I maintain my dignity by simply sitting and staring at her expectantly, as if to say, "Well? Where's the rest?"
My siblings stare in amazement. My sister immediately tries to replicate my litter box success, creating what looks like a small crater while shooting hopeful glances at Karen's pocket. My brother yawns and goes back to sleep, but I notice he's positioned himself strategically closer to Karen. The lazy genius.
Suddenly, the box doesn't seem so bad. In fact, if this is the deal - box first, snacks after - I might just be able to tolerate this nonsense. My sister has already figured this out and is now treating the litter box like a treat-dispensing machine, much to Karen's bewildered delight.
Still, I reserve the right to look annoyed every time she picks me up and plops me inside. Dignity, after all, must be maintained.