You asked for this, human. I am given to understand that some of you have expressed curiosity about how I spend my days. I find the question mildly presumptuous. Fine. I will describe my day. Try to keep up.
6:14 AM
I wake before the staff. This is not by accident. It gives me time to assess the household, identify any changes made without my approval (there was a new throw pillow last Tuesday; it has since been relocated to the floor), and determine the day’s agenda.
Today’s agenda: sleep, eat, sit in the good chair, and tolerate the presence of others to the minimum degree required by cohabitation law.
7:02 AM
The manling rises. I am waiting outside the bathroom door when he emerges, not because I missed him, but because I require breakfast and he is the one with thumbs. I communicate this through sustained, unblinking eye contact.
He says “good morning, buddy.” I do not dignify this with a response. I walk toward the kitchen. He follows. This is the correct order of operations.
He gives me the grain-free salmon. It is fine. I eat approximately two-thirds of it and then walk away. The remaining third is a statement.
8:45 AM
From my elevated position, I observe the household below. Everyone is busy with their human concerns. I watch them the way one watches a nature documentary: with detached interest and a faint sense of superiority.
11:30 AM
The patch of sunlight has moved to the kitchen floor. I move with it. This is not laziness. This is thermoregulation. I am a sophisticated organism operating at peak efficiency.
My human is on a work call in the next room and says the words “circle back” four times in twelve minutes. I note this without comment.
1:17 PM
I am given lunch. It is the chicken pâté. I have eaten chicken pâté before. I eat it without enthusiasm, which is the only appropriate response to something you have already experienced.
3:00 PM
A nap. I will not be elaborating on this.
4:44 PM
Something outside, a bird, presumably, has the audacity to make a sustained noise near my window. I watch it from the sill with an expression that communicates everything I would do if the glass were not there. The bird does not appear to register the gravity of its situation. This does not surprise me. Birds have always overestimated themselves.
6:30 PM
The humans discuss their days. I am mentioned twice, once favorably, and once in the context of the throw pillow incident, for which I do not apologize. Never capitulate! Never surrender!
9:15 PM
The staff retires. There is a brief negotiation about whether I will sleep “at the foot of the bed like a normal cat” or “directly on someone’s face.” I do not participate in this negotiation. I simply wait until the lights are off and then position myself where I see fit. Tonight: the manlings left shin. He adjusts around me. As he should.
11:58 PM
I am awake. The house is quiet. I walk the perimeter, check the windows, knock a pen off the counter for reasons I do not intend to disclose, and then return to my position on the shin.
Everything is as it should be. The household is secure. The staff is resting. The throw pillow is still on the floor.
Another adequate day with suspicion,
Mr. Biggles
