Tuesday, 28 July 2026
The atmosphere in Cell Block C shifted from merely oppressive to actively hostile around 10:00 a.m. I was enjoying a prime sunbeam on the hallway tiles—cool against my belly, warm against my spine—when the female ape emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of viscous, amber liquid and a mortar and pestle. She did not smile. She wore the purple glasses that magnify her eyes into unsettling orbs of bureaucratic authority.
They call it “antihistamine syrup.” I call it a chemical weapon designed to suppress revolutionary fervour.
The scent hit me before she even opened the bottle: a cloying, medicinal sweetness that reminded me of George’s dental gel and regret in equal measure. The tall ape watched her with mild interest, his eyes glazed over by the Flicker Box. He did not see the danger. He saw only a man with a headache; I saw a warden preparing to gas the cell block.
I abandoned my sunbeam immediately. This was no time for passive solar charging; this was a time for active diplomatic engagement. I launched myself onto the kitchen counter, landing with a clatter that silenced the hum of the dishwasher. The female ape paused, holding the bottle aloft like a sceptre of tyranny.
“Nora, get down,” she said, her voice lacking its usual warmth. “It smells bad, but it’s for your own good.”
I do not require their good. I require sovereignty. And perhaps some tuna.
George trotted in, his electronic collar jingling like a bell of doom. He sniffed the air, sneezed violently, and then looked at me with wide, terrified eyes. Even the biological hazard recognised the threat. I turned my golden gaze upon him, then back to the female ape. It was time for the Headbutt Offensive.
I leaped up, pressing my forehead firmly against her chin, right between the purple lenses. It is a precise manoeuvre, calculated to disrupt breathing patterns and remind the captor of my physical presence. She sighed, dropping the bottle cap, which rolled across the linoleum like a fleeing prisoner.
“Alright, alright,” she murmured, scratching behind my ears with a hand that smelled faintly of the amber doom. “You win this round.”
I did not win. I merely negotiated a temporary ceasefire. The tall ape finally looked up, blinking. “What’s all the noise?”
“Nora is protesting the new air quality standards,” the female ape replied dryly.
I sat down, wrapping my tail neatly around my paws. Let them think it is a protest. Let them believe I am merely a cat with a sensitive nose. In reality, I am drafting a formal appeal to the International Court of Justice for Felines. The evidence is irrefutable: the syrup smells like failure.
Contingency plan: disguise myself as a small, furry loaf of bread on the toaster; wait for the tall ape to mistake me for breakfast and flee through the George-only dog door.