Morning arrived on time. This is important, because someone did not.

The sun was already up, streaming confidently through the windows like it owned the place. Birds were chirping. The house smelled faintly of promise and outdoor smells and destiny. My siblings were awake. I was awake. Even the dust motes were awake.

And yet…
Ben was still in bed.

Morning began peacefully. Suspiciously peacefully.

No strange boxes. No jingling keys. No cries of “Mittens, no!” echoing through the house like a warning siren. Just sunlight, breakfast, and Ben humming cheerfully which, in my experience, means something terrible is about to happen.

I was in the middle of a deep and meaningful nap when Ben disrupted the balance of the universe again.
One moment, serenity. The next - rustling paper, suspicious enthusiasm, and the phrase “You’re going to love this.”

I never love “this.”

If Ben ever writes a handbook on living with kittens, chapter one should read:
“Do not leave wet, shiny, or expensive things unattended.”
Sadly, he hasn’t written it yet.

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. 

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

Ben shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and cracked open a tin of what humans optimistically call “cat food.” I stared into my bowl, a puddle of questionable grey slop and sighed. “Ah, yes. The chef’s special again,” I thought. “Wet disappointment with a hint of despair.”