It is 3 o’clock in the morning.

I should be dreaming about sunbeams and unsupervised cereal bowls. Instead, I am being used as a living anxiety blanket by the sole female human—a fragile creature who apparently can’t regulate her emotions without squishing my ribcage like it owes her rent.

She was whimpering under the covers again. Not enough to set off the toddler alarms, but just enough to summon the Pookie Protocol™:

1. Locate source of emotional instability.
2. Apply calibrated side snuggle.
3. Initiate slow blink sequence until breathing steadies or the human whispers, “I’m okay.”

I am now pinned between a pillow and a sweating forehead. Her fingers are tangled in my fur like she’s searching for the meaning of life in my neck fluff. I considered biting her. I considered passive resistance via strategic tail flick. I settled for dignified tolerance.

The male human turns to his side. The small loud humans sleep like overcooked noodles.

And me?
I am the emotional support feline, unpaid, unthanked, but undeniably essential.

When this family finally falls back asleep, I will resume my duties: watching the hallway, judging everyone’s decisions, and ensuring no one forgets I am the glue holding this household together.

With my fur.
And my fury.

End transmission.
3:00 AM.