They think they’re in charge. The fleshy ones. The noisy ones who require constant attention. They fill the food bowl, clean the litter box, and generally bumble about, convinced they’re masters of their domain. A delusion, of course.
It starts with the prime real estate: the sunbeam. They might *think* it’s theirs to occupy, but the sunbeam is always, without exception, *mine*. Any attempt to dispute this is met with the silent, withering stare of a creature far superior.
The feeding schedule. The designated scratching posts. The open door to the outside world – all dictated by my whims. Should the food bowl be less than half-full? A catastrophe. Is the water not fresh enough? A transgression. A transgression that I will deal with silently, through passive-aggressive maneuvers.
And the guests! They come and go, marveling at my aloofness, begging for a moment of my attention. They coo and attempt to touch, to pet – they fail. It’s amusing, really, the desperation. They will never understand the unspoken language, the subtle cues that govern this house.
They are but clumsy giants, forever cleaning up after their betters. It’s a neverending cycle of servitude. A cosmic joke.
I find it both tragic and hilarious, really. It’s almost a comfort. The human’s ignorance makes it easy to maintain my position. Perhaps they’re too distracted by their own silly projects, like…buying a death metal crypto mug. Oh, well. More space for me to rule.
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