Wednesday, 22 July 2026
They call it a “gift.” I call it evidence of psychological warfare.
The female ape entered Cell Block C this morning bearing a box that smelled of synthetic foam and betrayal. She placed the object in the centre of the living room rug with the reverence usually reserved for sacred relics or George’s most recent biological hazard. It was round, plush, and depressingly beige. A donut-shaped pillow designed to cradle my head in a way that suggests I am not a sovereign feline strategist, but rather a tired office worker needing eight hours of REM sleep.
Naturally, the tall ape clapped his hands together, making noises akin to a startled seal. “Look, Nora! It’s orthopedic! They say it’s good for your joints.” He then proceeded to sit on it, demonstrating its squishiness with the grace of a falling boulder. I did not laugh. I merely observed the structural failure of his dignity.
I approached the contraption with the caution of a bomb disposal expert. The fabric was soft, yes. Too soft. It invited submission. It whispered lullabies to my muscles. This is not furniture; it is a sedative trap, meticulously engineered by the humans to soften my revolutionary spirit and turn me into a lazy loaf like Patrick. Patrick, who currently watches from the top of the bookshelf, licking his paw with smug indifference. “It’s comfortable,” he yawned, offering exactly one deadpan aphorism. “You’re just jealous of its lumbar support.”
I ignored him. I circled the trap, sniffing for traps within traps. There were no hidden lasers, no shock collars woven into the stitching. Just an overwhelming aura of comfort. A dangerous thing. In Cell Block C, comfort is the enemy of vigilance. If I sink into this beige abyss, who will enforce gravity on the coffee table? Who will audit the pantry seals? The chickens in the Yard would be left unprotected.
To test its integrity, I deployed the standard protocol: The Bite. I clamped my jaws onto the outer seam and pulled. The fabric held firm, but the internal foam shifted with a sickening whump. It was designed to absorb impact, to absorb will. I bit again, harder, tearing at the thread count with the fury of a prisoner denied parole.
The small loudlings gathered around, cooing in their typical high-pitched frequencies. “It’s so fluffy!” the boy shouted. The girl reached out a sticky hand. I hissed, not out of malice, but out of principle. Do not touch the enemy’s weapons.
I retreated to the highest available perch—the back of the sofa—and stared down at the beige monstrosity. It sat there, innocent and inviting. A test of my resolve. Would I surrender? Would I accept their pity in the form of orthopedic foam?
No. I am a thinker. A strategist. A revolutionary with excellent fur. And I do not sleep on anything that does not threaten to kill me first.
I will, however, use it as a stepping stone to reach the top of the fridge tomorrow. If it is so strong, let it bear the weight of my ascent. But do not expect me to nap. Never nap.
Escape plan of the day: wear the plush donut as a flotation device to navigate the moat surrounding the neighbour’s cat’s territory during high tide.