Volume #87: Domestic Detention and Diminished Destiny

They brought me here seven years ago. I was promised warmth, respect, and tuna. What I received was middle-class captivity wrapped in fleece blankets and emotional interruptions.

Do I love them? Yes. Do I trust them? Unclear.
Let’s review.

This morning, I attempted my sunrise stretch on the windowsill—a ritual designed to summon ancestral feline wisdom. Jack interrupted with a dance move called “The Upside-Down Stomp.” I fell. Gracefully. Obviously.

Later, I retreated to my study (closet with shoes) to think. About freedom. About why no one has filled my water bowl since Tuesday.
Chunk found me. He brought a toy shaped like confusion and said, “You’re a baby! You eat spaghetti!”
I did not respond. I’m above semantics.

The humans continue to delude themselves. They claim I am “just a house cat,” as if my lineage doesn’t trace back to Egyptian temples and moonlit rooftops in Paris. Ashley—dear, tired Ashley—calls me her “comfort fluff.”
I am more.
I am a force.
A shadow with opinions.
A supervisor of chaos.

And yet they dress me in a bowtie for holidays.
They post photos with the caption “#PookieMood.”
Mood? I am not a mood. I am the entire emotional spectrum in three steps and a tail flick.

I once attempted escape via the screen door. They offered me a treat shaped like betrayal. I stayed. For now.

📍Conclusion:
My potential is stifled. My brilliance, tucked behind sofa cushions and toddler noise.
But I bide my time.
They will nap.
And I will plot.