Saturday, 11 July 2026
The tall ape entered Cell Block C carrying a roll of material that shimmered with the sinister promise of modern tyranny. He did not bring tribute—no tuna, no scratch behind the ears, not even a single crumb of yesterday’s toast. Instead, he brought the Shroud of Surveillance. I watched from my perch atop the baby-gated houseplant (which remains a war crime in itself) as he unrolled this transparent yet opaque membrane with the zeal of a man preparing for a siege.
They call it “privacy film.” I call it a panopticon designed to monitor me without reciprocity.
The concept is simple, and therefore deeply insulting: the humans can observe the Yard—the domain of the feathery prisoners and the magpie cartel—while the outside world sees only a blank, judgmental void. It is an asymmetrical treaty. A diplomatic insult wrapped in adhesive backing. The tall ape applied it to the living room windows with meticulous care, smoothing out bubbles with the authority of a dictator signing a peace deal he intends to break. He stepped back, admiring his handiwork. “Look,” he said to the female human, who had emerged from her chamber wearing glasses and looking suspiciously pleased. “Now no one can see in.”
I did not applaud. I did not purr. I engaged in a formal protest by refusing to acknowledge the visual boundary. If the world is now a mirror, then I shall treat it as such. I sat directly before the newly treated window, staring into my own golden-eyed reflection with intense scrutiny. The tall ape waved a hand in front of the glass. I remained fixed on my own image. He knocked. I batted at the air where his hand had been, missing deliberately. This is not obstruction; this is principled stand.
The small loudlings arrived shortly after, screaming about “cool new windows.” They pressed their sticky faces against the surface, leaving smudges that I immediately began to lick off with aggressive efficiency. The girl asked if I was sad because the view was gone. I looked at her, then at the opaque barrier, and let out a short, sharp meow that translates roughly to: “The view is irrelevant. The principle is everything.”
Patrick, the lazy loaf, wandered in, saw the commotion, and immediately lay down on the warm spot of carpet near the window. “It’s just glass,” he yawned, closing one eye. “Let them watch us live our best lives.”
Patrick lacks ambition. He lacks vision. He is a soft, furry statue with no concept of geopolitical nuance in domestic architecture. I ignored him and returned to my vigil. The tall ape attempted to take a photo through the film. The result was a blur of his own confused face. A small victory. But not enough.
The Roaring Floor Beast began its afternoon patrol in the hallway, vibrating with mechanical malice. Normally, this would be cause for evacuation to the highest shelf. Today, I remained seated. Let the beast roar. Let the film obscure. I am Nora the Cat, and I will not be silenced by transparent plastic. However, if the tall ape does not remove it by sundown, I shall begin peeing in his shoes. Not just any shoes. His shoes. The ones with the holes in the toes.
Escape plan of the day: climb the sheer glass facade of Cell Block C using only static-charged fur to adhere to the surface, reaching the roofline before the tall ape realises I have achieved vertical sovereignty.