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.
He appeared at the top of the stairs armed with a tin, a brush, and that unmistakable human expression that says, “I’m about to make bad choices.” Naturally, my siblings and I followed. Not out of affection, purely for scientific observation.
Then he stopped by the door - the forbidden one. The “classified human area.”
Ben sighed, looked down at us, and said, “Not this room, kittens. Off-limits, okay?”
Off-limits. A word that hits differently when you have fur and free time.
Before we could protest, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him, sealing his fate.
We sat in the hallway, listening to faint thumps, the swish of a roller, and the occasional mutter, “How did I miss that bit?” The smell drifted out soon after - sharp, chemical, suspicious. Humans call it “fresh paint.” I call it “regret in liquid form.”
Honestly, I’ll never understand why humans willingly stink up their own homes. If I wanted my living space to reek of disappointment, I’d just sit near Ben’s cooking experiments.
After a few minutes, I glanced at my siblings.
My sister’s tail flicked eagerly. “He’s hiding something,” her eyes said.
My brother yawned. “Wake me when the food appears,” his entire existence replied.
We waited.
And then… clink. The sound of a tin being set down.
That was our signal.
Ben stepped out moments later, speckled with blue. He looked around, saw no kittens, and smiled smugly. “Finally, some peace,” he said. He had no idea he was being watched by three highly trained professionals, our stealth was legendary, our patience unmatched. We were basically ninjas. Well… fluffy, slightly uncoordinated ninjas, but still terrifying in theory.
He walked downstairs, humming. The forbidden door? Left open.
Amateur mistake.
Time to inspect whatever catastrophe Ben had created this time with his opposable thumbs and poor judgment.
The walls were half-covered in pale blue - a colour Ben would later call “Ocean Breeze.” I’d call it “Corporate Sadness No. 5.”
Apparently, the ocean now smells like furniture polish and poor decisions.
And there it was: the tin. Open. Shiny. Perfectly still.
Waiting.
I crept closer, purely for research. “So this is paint,” I thought. “Humans spread this on walls to make them slightly less boring. Revolutionary.” It was wet, weirdly reflective, and absolutely screaming ‘touch me.’ Naturally, I obliged.
My sister, meanwhile, launched into her investigation at full speed and went headfirst into the paint tin.
Of course she did. The sound was spectacular - SPLORP.
I swear, if curiosity ever built an Olympic team, she’d bring home the gold… and probably set something on fire in the process.
Blue paint cascaded across the floor, splashing the wall, the skirting boards, and, most tragically, me.
I blinked through the droplets on my whiskers, frozen in disbelief.
My sister leapt out, now decorated like a piece of modern art.
My brother padded forward, sniffed, and said, “Sticky.” Then he stepped right in. He looked positively delighted — as if he’d discovered the meaning of life through the medium of sludge.
Then, in a move I can only describe as performance art, he began to roll. Side to side. Purring like he’d found enlightenment. For a cat who considers standing up optional, I was half expecting him to just plop into the tin and declare it a nap zone.
For a long, terrible second, no one moved. Then chaos exploded.
My sister bolted out of the room, trailing blue pawprints like tiny crime-scene markers. My brother panicked, slipped, and somehow managed to flick more paint onto the wardrobe. I tried to back away, but my tail brushed the roller. Cold. Wet. Treachery.
I hissed in horror and leapt forward - unfortunately straight through the puddle.
The three of us shot out of the room in a blur of fur, fear, and fine art.
We skidded down the hallway, leaving perfect blue pawprints in our wake. The walls weren’t spared either; apparently, I have a flair for abstract vertical design.
By the time we reached the stairs, we’d collectively turned the beige carpet into a masterpiece of streaks, smudges, and despair.
Halfway down, my sister lost traction and tumbled gloriously to the bottom, rolling end over end like a very determined blueberry. I followed, because leadership requires commitment.
We landed in the hallway just as Ben appeared.
He stopped. We stopped. It was a moment of silent horror.
His eyes went wide. His jaw dropped.
“Mittens…” he whispered, voice trembling, “what have you done?” I blinked. “Decorated,” I thought.
He looked around at the pawprints - the walls, the carpet, the kittens.
Then he made a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper.
My sister sneezed, sending a fine mist of blue specks onto his jeans. Ben’s face twitched. Ah yes, the unmistakable twitch of a man watching his weekend plans die before his eyes.
And then the chase began.
He lunged, we scattered. Blue paws slapped across the tile. My brother vanished under the sofa, leaving one blue pawprint behind like a signature. My sister zipped behind the curtains, turning them from cream to chaos. I dove under the table, triumphant until I realized my tail had left a neat streak of colour on every leg of the table.
Eventually, Ben cornered us. He crouched down, exhaled like a man aged twenty years in ten minutes, and said, “Okay… okay. Let’s… fix this.”
He fetched a damp cloth and tried to wipe us down. The results were… mixed. My sister became a lighter shade of chaos. My brother looked like a half-finished mural. It resembled a tragic art project that ran out of funding.
Ben sat back, defeated. “It’s not coming off,” he sighed. “Looks like you three will need… a bath.”
A what now?
The word hung in the air like thunder.
He said it again, as if it explained anything. “A bath.”
My sister tilted her head.
My brother blinked slowly.
I frowned. “A bath,” I repeated silently. “Sounds ominous. Or possibly delicious? Hard to tell.” It didn’t sound like food, but humans are unpredictable. They also eat salad, so who can say.
Ben stood, muttering something about finding cat shampoo, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door.
The moment it clicked shut behind him, we exchanged glances.
“What’s a bath?” I thought “Maybe it’s a snack?”
I considered this deeply. “Or perhaps… a reward. For our artistic brilliance.”
We looked around at the living room - streaked carpet, patterned curtains, pawprint trails.
Honestly, it was beautiful.
I puffed out my chest proudly. “He said we need a bath,” I declared. “Clearly, it’s something special. A prize for talent. Recognition for our work.”
My sister purred in agreement. My brother yawned and rolled onto his back, leaving one final blue smudge on the floor.
And as we waited for Ben to return with whatever this mysterious ‘bath’ was, I thought to myself:
Humans might not understand art… But they certainly react to it. Loudly.