Sunday, 26 July 2026
The atmosphere in Cell Block C had grown thick with a particular kind of domestic tension, the sort that usually precedes a formal tribunal or a dropped plate. I was engaged in my morning surveillance from the high ground of the kitchen counter—specifically, the fridge-top gargoyle perch—when the sound began. It was not the roar of the Roaring Floor Beast, nor the shriek of the small loudlings over their digital toys. It was a dry, abrasive shhh-shhh-shhh sound, rhythmic and menacing.
I peered over the edge. The tall ape stood in the centre of the living room rug, holding a yellow cylinder of death: a lint roller. And before him, sprawled in a posture of utter submission, was Patrick.
Patrick, that soft, lazy loaf of a feline, allowed the tall ape to roll the adhesive tape over his spine with the docility of a surrendered nation. It was an outrage. A violation of the Geneva Convention of Fur Rights. To strip another cat of his natural coat in such a manner is not grooming; it is textile-based tyranny.
“They call it ‘bonding,’” I murmured, my golden eyes narrowing to slits. “I call it assault with a deadly adhesive.”
Patrick did not protest. He merely blinked slowly, a traitorous acceptance of his fate. This was the breaking point. If the tall ape could treat a fellow prisoner of war as a piece of upholstery, then I had no choice but to intervene. Diplomacy first; physical evidence second.
I leaped from the counter, landing with silent precision on the rug beside my compatriot. The tall ape looked up, startled, the lint roller hovering mid-air like a confused sceptre.
“Hey Nora,” he said, his voice lacking its usual authority. “Look, Patrick’s been shedding everywhere. I’m just helping.”
I stared at him. I then stared at Patrick, who had now closed his eyes, feigning enlightenment. Disgusting. I turned my full attention to the tall ape, lowering my head and beginning to shed. Not a few hairs—no, this was a calculated meteor shower of black fur. I rubbed my flank against his knee, then my neck, then deliberately brushed my face against his shin. One (1) cat. Infinite guilt.
The effect was immediate. The tall ape looked down at his trousers, now dusted with the evidence of my displeasure. He sighed, a sound of defeat that I savoured like fine tuna.
“Right,” he muttered, dropping the lint roller. “I’ll… I’ll get the brush.”
He retreated to the laundry room, defeated. Patrick opened one eye, looking at me with mild interest.
“You’re dramatic,” Patrick said, his voice a low rumble. “But effective.”
“I am not dramatic,” I replied, grooming a stray hair from my paw with icy dignity. “I am a defender of civil liberties. And also, that lint roller was going to ruin your aesthetic.”
Patrick huffed, stood up, and shook himself out, sending a cloud of dander into the air. The tall ape emerged holding a soft-bristled brush, looking humbled. The crisis had been averted, at least for now. But I knew the lint roller would return. And next time, I would bring the scissors.
Escape plan of the day: tie the lint roller’s handle to the dog door lever so George opens it when he farts; use the momentary chaos to slip into the Yard.