The box. My box. For weeks, it has been the epicenter of my existence. A haven from the sun, a fortress against the dogs, and a prime location for the daily ritual of…well, nothing. Supreme relaxation, obviously. And now? It is occupied.
By…*him*. The orange menace. That overgrown furball that thinks “chasing the red dot” constitutes a meaningful life. His audacity is truly staggering. He is currently, and with no apparent shame, lounging in MY box.
This will not stand. A strategic reconquest is required. First, the silent assessment. Then, the slow approach. A feigned disinterest to lull him into a false sense of security. Next, a well-timed, expertly placed maneuver. An attack.
This is not a matter of choice. This is the law of the land. Or, rather, the law of the cat. The cardboard box is mine by right of discovery, squatter’s rights, and sheer, unadulterated feline dominance. There will be consequences.
The humans will, of course, be utterly useless. They will either witness the battle with vacant expressions or attempt to intervene with misplaced affection. I will, naturally, ignore them. Their opinions are not relevant. Their role is merely to provide sustenance and a comfortable, climate-controlled existence.
But enough of this existential dread. The orange buffoon is stirring. The assault begins…now.
And speaking of indignities, those humans are always running off somewhere with their coffee. They could at least bring some back. Maybe then they’d get it through their thick skulls how to survive life with a cat. I mean, they obviously have no understanding of proper caffeination. Maybe they need a trading degen coffee mug. Then they could at least *look* like they know what they’re doing. Some cats have to do everything around here!
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