THE MIDNIGHT MOTH INCIDENT

 It was a quiet night. Too quiet. The humans were asleep. Spurka was drooling on the pillow. Kitka was twitching in her sleep, probably chasing cheese again.

I was on patrol, naturally. Someone has to keep the perimeter safe from invisible threats like that suspicious shoelace and the ghost that sometimes lives behind the curtain.

And then… it happened.

The Moth.

A winged menace. A fluttering phantom. A flying crinkly sock with no sense of boundaries. It dive-bombed the lamp like it was reenacting Top Gun: Insect Edition.

I froze. Narrowed my eyes. My whiskers twitched.
This was no ordinary bug. This was a challenge.

“TO BATTLE!” I screamed (silently, with my eyes).

I launched from the windowsill with the grace of a ballerina and the violence of a flying toaster. Spurka woke up mid-air as I soared over her. Kitka fell off the bed in sheer panic. The humans sat up just in time to see me body-slam the curtain.

The moth?
Gone.
Vanished.
Ascended to the afterlife or hiding behind the bookshelf.

I sat proudly in the middle of the room, tail flicking, fur fluffed, heart racing like a samba drum.

The humans sighed. Kitka whined. Spurka hissed at a dust bunny.

But the night was safe. Thanks to me.

You’re welcome. 

I Found an Ant. Named Him Edgar. Then Ate Him.

 It all began on a lazy August afternoon.

The fan hummed. The curtains swayed.
Ania was talking to a houseplant again.
And then… I saw him.

Edgar.
Small. Determined. Surprisingly fast.
A lone ant. Marching across the kitchen floor like he had somewhere to be.

---

🌿 The Courtship

I watched him for ten minutes.
He ignored me.
Naturally, I was intrigued.

I pawed gently. He zigzagged.
I pawed again. He panicked.
Romance!

We had chemistry.
By which I mean I knocked over a glass of water chasing him and it fizzed near an outlet.

---

📖 Our Story Was Brief, But Intense

• He ran.

• I followed.

• He paused dramatically near the fridge.

• I blinked slowly. He waved an antenna (probably).

• We shared a moment.

• Then I licked him up.

---

🕯️ I Regret Nothing

Ania screamed,

“GRYZKA! Did you just EAT that?!”

I made eye contact.
Sat down.
Burped silently.

This is nature, darling.

---

🐜 In Loving Memory of Edgar:

• Lived bravely

• Ran erratically

• Tasted like crunchy disappointment and power

---

🎭 Final Thoughts:

Sometimes you meet someone who changes your life.
Sometimes you eat them.
Either way… I grew from the experience.
Mostly sideways.

Respectfully,
– Gryzka 🐾
Ant whisperer. Emotionally complex. Digestively fearless.

July Romance? I Lick Myself, Thank You.

 Ah, summer.

That time of year when humans get all misty-eyed, sweaty-palmed, and start wearing less clothing in public than I find emotionally acceptable.

From my perch on the windowsill (where I sit like a decorative gargoyle with judgmental whiskers), I’ve been observing your awkward flirtations, beach dates, and tragic “picnics” where ants are the only ones really thriving.

Let me make this very clear:

July romance? I lick myself, thank you.

---

First of All: It’s Too Hot to Be in Love

Have you felt the temperature lately? I rolled over and accidentally slow-cooked my tail. You want me to fall in love while I’m basically a baked lasagna in fur?

No, darling. The only thing I’m cuddling is the cold tile floor and my delusions of a cooler life.

---

Gryzka’s Official Summer Romance Advice:

💋 1. Don’t chase love. Chase sunbeams.

Love runs. Sunbeams stay in place and warm your belly. One is exhausting. The other is divine. You do the math.

💋 2. Tongue baths are self-love.

You humans are so focused on finding someone. Find a brush. Find a shady spot. Find your inner sparkle. That’s sexy.

💋 3. If someone tries to touch you when you didn’t ask? Bite them.

This applies in ALL SEASONS.

💋 4. Romantic gestures?

Sure. Knock a plant off the windowsill. Stare into their soul at 3AM. Purr loudly, then bite their nose. It’s called setting boundaries.

---

I Watched a Date from This Very Window

Two humans sat on a blanket eating grapes. She giggled. He leaned closer. She smiled.
Then he sneezed.
Into her wine.
She still kissed him.

Honestly? Disgusting. Have some dignity. I saw a pigeon look away in shame.

---

Real Love Is This:

• A human who doesn’t move when I nap on their bladder.

• A bowl of wet food slightly warm, never cold.

• A sun patch that lasts more than 12 minutes.

• Spurka letting me have the windowsill without a hissing match (okay, that one’s fictional).

---

Final Thoughts from Dr. Fluff

If romance finds you this July, good for you.
But if not? Wrap yourself in your own tail, lick your chest floof, and know that you are enough.

After all, I don’t chase anyone.
They come to me. Usually holding treats.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sigh dramatically while watching the sunset like the mysterious goddess I am.

Loveless, flawless,
Gryzka
Self-groomed. Self-respecting. Self-employed (at napping).

Nap Like You Mean It

Let’s get something straight:

I sleep 20 hours a day, and I’m still too tired.
Don’t ask how. Ask why not more?

---

Step 1: Wake Up Exhausted

Start the day strong by opening one eye, sighing, and changing napping positions. If your human says, “Good morning, Gryzka!” roll dramatically and mutter, “Is it though?” Then go back to sleep for 3 more hours. You’re off to a productive start.

---

Step 2: Stretch Like You Worked a Double Shift at the Tuna Factory

Extend one paw… groan. Arch your back… yawn like you’ve been emotionally betrayed. Walk 12 steps to the sunny patch of floor, collapse dramatically. Exhaustion: refreshed.

---

Step 3: Hydration (Sort of)

Stare at your water bowl. Contemplate the meaning of water. Lick once. Nap next to it. You’re 86% fluff and vibes anyway.

---

Step 4: Light Exercise (Optional)

Swat vaguely at a dust bunny. Miss. Yawn. Sit down and look suspiciously at nothing in particular until your human asks if you see a ghost.
Congratulations, you’ve done more than most people on vacation.

---

Step 5: Lunchtime, If I Must

Sniff the food. Leave. Come back. Sniff again. Yell. Eat 3 bites. Leave. Stare at the wall for 17 minutes. Exhausting. Time for another nap.

---

Step 6: Productivity Window (3–5 minutes max)

Stare out the window. Think mean thoughts about pigeons. Judge the neighbor’s dog. Hiss at nothing.
Congratulations, you've participated in society.

---

Step 7: Avoidance Tactics

Human wants cuddles? Pretend to be asleep.
Human wants to trim your claws? Go fully limp like an emotionally unstable noodle.
Human says, “Do something cute for Instagram”? Collapse in the litter box. Perfect.

---

Step 8: Evening Wind-Down Routine

Move from the bed to the chair. From the chair to the bookshelf. From the bookshelf to the human’s chest while she’s reading. Loud purring. Kneading. Hair everywhere. Collapse dramatically. Sleep.

Wake up 10 minutes later, walk across keyboard, and scream into the void (optional but recommended).

---

Final Thoughts from a Tired Feline Philosopher:

If you’re not tired from doing nothing, you’re not doing it right.
The heat? Draining.
The expectations? Laughable.
The energy levels? Subterranean.

So yes, I sleep 20 hours a day. And yes, I’m still too tired.
But darling, I’m exhausted in style.

Now excuse me while I yawn into the next dimension.

Sleepily yours,
Gryzka
Professional Napologist, Domestic Icon, Unemployed by Choice

The Mouse Cursor Is Alive and I Must Destroy It

 It all began on a humid July afternoon.

Ania opened her laptop to “work.”
The soft clicking began. The screen lit up.

And then—I saw it.
A tiny arrow.
Darting. Wiggling. Taunting me.

The mouse cursor.

A silent enemy with no legs, no scent, and too much nerve.

---

🎯 Target Acquired

It moved.
I leapt.

Missed.
But the intent was clear: war.

It zipped left. I chased.
It zipped right. I face-planted into the screen.
Ania screamed:

“GRYZKA, NOT AGAIN!”

---

💻 Technology Status Report:

• Caps Lock: permanently on

• Chrome bookmarks: deleted

• Spreadsheet: 89 tabs opened, all titled “wwwwwwwwwwwwwww”

• Touchpad: licked for strategic reasons

---

🛡️ My Strategy:

1. Wait for the cursor to appear

2. Watch it with narrowed eyes and simmering suspicion

3. Strike when Ania least expects it
   (usually mid-email or video call)

4. Sit directly on the keyboard

5. Pretend to sleep while secretly operating her F12 key

---

🎤 Ania’s Response:

• “Gryzka, WHY?!”

• “Stop editing my manuscript!”

• “You changed my language settings to Finnish!!”

• “Oh my God, you sent that to my client.”

---

🐭 Final Thoughts:

You may not see it.
You may not hear it.
But the cursor is always there.
Waiting.
Wiggling.

And I will be ready.
For I am not just a cat.
I am a warrior of the digital age.
I have paws of justice and a very round face.

Defiantly,
– Gryzka 🐾
Mouse hunter. Keyboard stomper. IT nightmare.

CICADA CHOIR

 It began at dusk.

A single chirp. Innocent. Tiny.
Then another.
Then ALL OF THEM. AT ONCE.

I was just settling in for my fourth post-dinner nap (the important one where I sleep upside-down with my tongue slightly out), when suddenly—SKREEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Cicadas.
Crawling, buzzing, screaming like a kazoo in a blender.

You’d think it was some sort of insect Eurovision out there. One was clearly off-key. Another had no rhythm. And the one in the olive tree sounded like he was gargling gravel.

I sat on the windowsill, tail twitching in dignified rage.
Spurka slept through it. Kitka snored into a pot of thyme.
Cowards.

I, however, took action.
I composed a highly dramatic opera titled:
“Shut Up, You Winged Idiots” — a six-act tragedy in minor keys.

Act I: "Buzz Off"

Act II: "Cease Your Screeching, Sir"
Act III: "How Dare You Ruin My Mood"
Act IV: "The Screaming Bush of Madness"
Act V: "Windows Closed, Yet I Still Suffer"
Act VI: "Meow at the Moon in Defiance"

I performed the overture at 2:13 AM from atop the kitchen counter. My human was deeply moved — she cried out and fell off the bed.

I received no applause. Only a firm "GRYZKA. BED. NOW."
Philistines.

But I know the truth.
I am a genius.
And if the cicadas dare perform again tonight…
I’m bringing Spurka and a saucepan lid.

You’ve been warned, nature.

My Fur Has Betrayed Me

 

Listen all unfortunate humans who still believe you are in charge—I am writing this while draped like a tragic shawl over the windowsill, one paw dangling, one eye twitching, and my soul slowly evaporating in the July humidity.

I lick my fur… and get a sauna for free.

That’s right. It’s called feline hydrothermal grooming, and no, I’m not enjoying it. Every time I so much as touch my glorious coat, it fluffs up like a depressed cloud, and somehow I end up sweating through my tongue. Do you understand what it’s like to clean yourself and come out wetter?

My once sleek, majestic fur now looks like something that fell behind the washing machine in 1997. The human tried to brush me yesterday—she ended up brushing the brush.

And the humidity? Oh, darling, it’s not weather. It’s atmospheric soup. I breathe in, and I’m sipping. I lie down, and I’m poaching. I tried to stretch and accidentally slid off the table like a sad furry lasagna.

The human, of course, is doing her usual July rituals:

• Complaining

• Fan-hogging

• Putting ice cubes in places no ice cube should ever go (ahem, my water bowl is not a cocktail)

She keeps asking, “Are you hot, Gryzka?”
Mom. I am a walking velvet furnace. I am 38 degrees Celsius wrapped in fluff. I am the embodiment of heat retention. Of course I’m hot—I’m also offended that you even asked.

Yesterday I tried to nap in the bathtub. Kitka was already there. She looked like a seal that had given up on life. We had a silent agreement: “We never speak of this again.”

Even Spurka, who normally lies in flowerpots like a jungle queen, has melted into a puddle of pessimism on the balcony tiles. At one point, she whispered, “I can hear the cucumbers growing.”

In conclusion, my dearest readers, July is cancelled. I recommend:

• Napping only in drafty corners

• Refusing all affection that comes with body heat

• Demanding frozen tuna cubes, or justice

And if anyone says, “But Gryzka, summer is so nice!”—I shall hiss. Then return to my mop-fur sauna ritual, with dramatic sighs between every lick.

Stay fluffy, stay furious,
Gryzka

P.S. If anyone has a dehumidifier and/or a chilled throne, I am accepting donations.