Essays, observations, and philosophical dispatches from a Maine Coon mix with opinions. Updated whenever he feels like it, which is to say: on his schedule, not yours.
— Transcribed by Lynne Ludwig, who takes no responsibility for his views
A brief meditation on the arbitrary nature of human time constructs
She woke up this morning with what I can only describe as a sense of dread. I observed this from the bedroom box. She looked at her phone. She made a sound. She said the word "Monday" in a tone that suggested Monday had personally wronged her.
I have been thinking about this.
I do not experience Monday. I experience: the quality of light through the east window, the temperature of the floor, the precise moment when the heating vent activates, and whether my bowl has been filled to the correct level. None of these things change based on what humans have decided to call the day.
The sun rose at the same angle it always does. The box was exactly where I left it. The heating vent came on at 6:08, as it does. Monday, as far as I can determine, is entirely a human problem.
I went back to sleep. I recommend this approach.
Observations from seventeen months of surveillance
I have been monitoring the refrigerator for seventeen months. I am prepared to share my findings.
The refrigerator hums. It hums at a frequency that I find neither alarming nor soothing — merely present. It hums when it is working and it hums when it is not working and the distinction between these states is, as far as I can determine, entirely internal to the refrigerator.
The refrigerator opens approximately eleven times per day. Each opening releases a brief cold draft and a variety of smells, some of which are interesting and some of which are not. The interesting ones are: the container on the second shelf that smells of fish, the drawer on the left that smells of something I cannot identify but intend to investigate further, and the door shelf that smells of the wet food she buys for me, which she keeps there for reasons I have not yet determined.
The refrigerator closes. The hum resumes. I return to my position.
I have not yet determined the purpose of the refrigerator. I will continue my research.
Update, 3:12am: The refrigerator opened again. She got water. She looked at me. I looked at her. She went back to bed. The refrigerator closed. The hum resumed. I am no closer to understanding any of this.
An emergency dispatch
I am writing this at 4:33 in the morning because something is wrong with the hallway and I need it on record.
I cannot tell you what is wrong with the hallway. I can tell you that something is wrong with it. I have walked through it four times. I have sniffed the baseboards. I have sat at one end and stared at the other end for eleven minutes. The hallway has not explained itself.
I woke Lynne to inform her of the situation. She said "Kit, it's four in the morning." I am aware of what time it is. The time is not the issue. The hallway is the issue.
She went back to sleep. I am monitoring the situation from the living room box, which has a clear sightline to the hallway entrance. If anything develops, I will report back.
The hallway remains suspicious.
Update, 6:02am: The hallway appears to be fine. I have no explanation for this. I am choosing to remain vigilant.
Volume I of an ongoing series
The sunbeam arrived at 9:47. I was in position by 9:48. This is, I believe, a personal record.
The sunbeam was excellent. It was warm in the precise way that sunbeams are warm — not the aggressive warmth of the heating vent, which is reliable but lacks nuance, but the particular warmth of light that has traveled a very long distance and arrived specifically for me. I settled into it. I arranged my mane. I closed my eyes.
At 11:19, the sunbeam began to move.
I want to be clear about something: I understand, on an intellectual level, that the Earth rotates. I have been told this. I accept it as a fact. What I do not accept is that this rotation should be allowed to interfere with my sunbeam without my consent.
By 11:22, the sunbeam had moved approximately fourteen inches to the left. I moved with it. This is not ideal. I should not have to move. The sunbeam should stay.
I have raised this issue with Lynne on multiple occasions. She has not resolved it. I am beginning to question her commitment to my comfort.
A personal account of betrayal and recovery
I am going to tell you what happened, and I am going to tell it plainly, because I think it deserves to be told plainly.
She moved the box.
The bedroom box. My primary residence. The box I have occupied for seven months. The box that is positioned at the precise angle to catch the morning light while remaining adjacent to the heating vent. The box I have broken in, shaped to my specifications, and arranged to my exact requirements.
She moved it approximately three feet to the left. She said she was "vacuuming." I do not know what vacuuming requires that could not be accomplished around the box. I did not ask. I was too stunned to ask.
I sat in the doorway and looked at the box in its new location for forty-five minutes. I did not get in it. I wanted her to understand the gravity of what she had done.
At 9:40, I got in the box. It was still the box. The box was fine. The box, I am relieved to report, has survived the relocation.
I have not fully forgiven her. But I am in the box. These two things can coexist.
Effective immediately and until further notice
Lynne has guests today. I am issuing the following policy statement for their reference.
Section 1: Approach. Guests may not approach me. I will approach guests when and if I determine that approach is warranted. The timeline for this determination is mine alone. It may be ten minutes. It may be three hours. It may be never. Guests should plan accordingly.
Section 2: The Belly. No.
Section 3: The Name. Guests may say my name. They may not say it in a high-pitched voice. They may not say it repeatedly. They may not say it while making a kissy sound. I have feelings about the kissy sound.
Section 4: The Box. The box is not available for guest interaction. The box is mine. Guests who attempt to interact with the box will be regarded with the full weight of my disapproval.
Section 5: Exceptions. The guest who brought the bag that smells interesting is exempt from Sections 1 through 4, pending further investigation of the bag.
Thank you for your compliance.