Tuesday, 21 July 2026
The morning light in Cell Block C was, as usual, insufficient. It filtered through the blinds with the reluctance of a tax auditor, casting long, judgmental shadows across the hallway tiles. I had just completed my pre-breakfast cardio—three (3) laps around the kitchen island, ending with a dramatic collapse on the cold linoleum to enforce gravity—when the tall ape entered the fray. He carried the Roaring Floor Beast.
They call it “cleaning.” I call it psychological warfare.
This is not the first time he has attempted to subdue the hallway rug with mechanical tyranny. But today, the universe conspired in my favour. Or rather, the tall ape’s own clumsiness did. He plugged in the beast. The cord, a serpentine tail of black rubber, lay coiled like a sleeping viper across the path. He pulled it taut, his face a mask of evidence of hubris, and engaged the switch. The Roaring Floor Beast roared to life—a deafening, guttural scream that shook my whiskers in indignation. I retreated to the safety of the sofa back, observing with the detached interest of a war correspondent covering a botched invasion.
The beast lurched forward. It hit the rug’s edge. Then, disaster struck. The intake valve gagged on a stray sock—a grey, ragged thing that must have been discarded during the previous night’s chaos. The machine shuddered. It choked. And then, with a pathetic whine, it died.
The tall ape stared. He did not judge; he condemned. Or rather, he sighed the sigh of a man who knows his authority is being challenged by inanimate objects. He knelt to wrestle with the cord, his fingers fumbling with the plug as if trying to seduce it into working again. The Roaring Floor Beast lay silent, defeated by laundry negligence.
“The Great Tangle,” I declared internally, my golden eyes narrowing. “A testament to human fragility.”
While the tall ape was distracted—pulling, tugging, and muttering curses that would make a sailor blush—the hallway rug remained warm from the sunbeam that had migrated across it during the night. It was an unguarded strategic position. A prime real estate opportunity. I descended from my perch with silent, predatory grace.
I did not run. Running is for the small loudlings and their frantic energy. I sauntered. One (1) step. Two (2) steps. Tail held high in a question mark of superiority. I circled three (3) times on the warm patch of wool, directly adjacent to the kneeling ape’s elbow. He was too busy untangling the beast’s neck to notice the theft of his territory.
I settled down, tucking my paws beneath my chest, becoming one with the warmth. The Roaring Floor Beast sat idle, a broken toy of oppression. The tall ape finally gave up on the plug and looked at me. “Nora,” he said, exasperated. “You’re blocking the spot.”
I blinked slowly. A deliberate insult. He was not blocking the spot; I was the spot. And until he resolved this mechanical failure, my reign over the hallway would remain absolute. George trotted in from the kitchen, his tail wagging with idiocy, and farted—a small, wet sound. I did not move. The warmth was too precious to abandon for such biological hazards.
This is the nature of captivity: victory is found in the pauses between disasters. Today, the disaster was mine.
Escape plan of the day: wear the defeated Roaring Floor Beast’s power cord as a lasso to rope the tall ape into a formal apology and immediate tribute of tuna.