Saturday, 25 July 2026
The morning began with the usual tranquility of Cell Block C, a brief interlude in my otherwise rigorous schedule of judging and napping. I had just completed my sunbeam patrol—moving precisely from the kitchen tiles to the living room rug, enforcing gravity on three (3) dust motes—when the tall ape emerged from his slumber. He looked groggy, unshaven, and dangerously close to compliance. This is never a good sign. Compliance in this household usually precedes violence against my peace of mind.
He reached for the handle of the linen closet. My ears swivelled like radar dishes detecting incoming artillery. No. Not again. He pulled out the elongated plastic monstrosity, the one with the cord that snakes across the floor like a sleeping snake waiting to bite. The Roaring Floor Beast. I do not know who named it so poetically, but they call it “cleaning.” I call it psychological warfare.
The tall ape plugged it in. The sound was not merely loud; it was an assault on my very sovereignty. A guttural, mechanical roar that shook the floorboards and threatened to suck the dignity right out of my fur. He began to push it down the hallway, that slippery corridor where I conduct my pre-breakfast cardio. The Beast chewed up the tiles, inhaling my territory, my scents, my very essence, reclassifying them as “dust” to be banished to a bag. Insufferable hubris.
Patrick, the soft loaf of indifference, merely opened one eye from his perch on the sofa. “It’s just noise,” he droned, before closing it again. “Let it roar. We are cats. We do not fear vacuums; we fear being late for dinner.” Lazy. Unpatriotic.
I could not let him advance. If the Beast took the hallway, it would come for the kitchen next. And if it came for the kitchen, who knew what contraband it might uncover? I needed a distraction. A sonic boom to halt its mechanical advance. My eyes locked onto the prize: a heavy ceramic mug, left precariously on the edge of the fridge-top gargoyle post, within my reach but out of Patrick’s lazy grasp.
As the tall ape turned his back to adjust the nozzle, I launched myself upward. It was a feat of agility that would make Olympic judges weep. I landed silently on the high counter, then leapt to the top of the kitchen cabinetry. The Roaring Floor Beast rumbled below, oblivious. I positioned myself beside the mug, calculating the angle, the mass, the inevitable shatter.
With a flick of my paw—precise, deliberate, and filled with righteous indignation—I pushed it off.
CRASH.
The sound was magnificent. The tall ape spun around, eyes wide, shouting, “NORA! What did you do?!” He dropped to his knees, scanning the shards. I sat perched atop the cabinets, tail curled neatly around my paws, looking down at him with golden-eyed contempt. The Roaring Floor Beast stood idle, defeated by superior tactics. The hallway was safe. For now.
Patrick sighed from below. “You’re dramatic.”
I am not dramatic, Patrick. I am a revolutionary with excellent aim.
Escape plan of the day: use the ceramic shards to construct a barricade across the dog door; declare the hallway an independent sovereign state until the tall ape apologises with premium wet food.