I Judged My Reflection in the Window

 

This morning, I saw another cat in the window.

She was sitting very still.
She was fluffy, but in a responsible way.
Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and slightly tired.

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Immediately, I began to judge her.

 

First Impressions Matter

At first, I thought: Who is this?
Is she confident? Yes.
Is she well-fed? Adequately.
Is she looking at me like she owns the place? Absolutely unacceptable.

I narrowed my eyes.
She narrowed hers.

This was not a coincidence.

Kitka Knows It’s Me

Kitka, the calico and the oldest, walked past and glanced at the window.

“That’s you,” she said without stopping.

I did not ask for spoilers.

Kitka has reached the age where she no longer argues with reflections. She accepts herself, her whiskers, and her nap schedule. This is emotional maturity. I am not there yet.

Spurka Thought It Was a Challenge

Spurka, my black sister, saw the reflection and immediately assumed violence was required.

She puffed up, hissed once, slipped on the floor, and ran away.

The reflection did the same.

I respect consistency.

Lenka Believed in Friendship

Lenka approached the window slowly and chirped at my reflection.

She touched noses with the glass.

She believes the other cat is lonely.

Lenka believes many wrong things.

A Closer Inspection

I moved closer.

The reflection moved closer.

Her fur was perfect.
Her posture excellent.
Her tail… slightly crooked, but in a charming way.

I sat.
She sat.

I turned my head.
She copied me.

At this point, I realized two things:

1. She has no original thoughts.

2. She is extremely attractive.

The Verdict

After several minutes of intense staring, I concluded:

• She could lose a little weight (just emotionally)

• She should rest more

• Her human is lucky

I blinked slowly.

She blinked back.

This is the highest form of approval.

Final Thoughts

I walked away from the window feeling judged—but also validated.

If I must share my home with another cat, at least she has excellent taste and looks exactly like me.

I will check on her again tomorrow.

Just to be sure she hasn’t changed.

— Gryzka 🐾

I Sat on the Remote to Improve Programming

 

Let me be clear: I did not sit on the remote by accident.

I sat on it with intention.

 My human claims the television “changed channels on its own.” This is false. The television changed channels because I intervened.

The Problem with Human Programming

Humans watch strange things in January. Loud news. Sad movies. People cooking without sharing. I observed this content carefully and decided it needed improvement.

So I positioned myself directly on the remote.

Instant results.

The volume went up. Then down. Then we switched from news to cooking to nature documentary where a lion stared into the camera with respect.

Better already.

Kitka Supports Quality Control

Kitka, the calico and the oldest, approved of my method. She says in her day, cats had to physically stand in front of the television to control it.

Progress is important.

She sat nearby, pretending not to care, but when I accidentally paused the show, she nodded slowly. Approval.

Spurka Thinks Remotes Are Toys

Spurka, my black sister, believes the remote is a living creature that must be defeated.

She attacked it.

Buttons flew. Batteries escaped. The human screamed. Spurka ran away like a shadow with a criminal past.

I stayed seated. A professional does not panic.

Lenka Is Learning the Craft

Lenka watched me closely. She thinks sitting on the remote is “magic.”

She tried it later, but she is small and only managed to turn on subtitles in three languages. Still, a promising start.

She will be powerful one day.

The Human Does Not Understand Art

My human said, “Gryzka, move, I’m watching this.”

Watching what?
I had already improved it.

She does not appreciate that:

• I removed commercials

• adjusted the volume

• changed the mood

• and introduced suspense

Also, I was warm there.

Final Verdict

The remote is not a tool.
It is a responsibility.

If humans cannot be trusted to choose good programs, cats must step in.

I will continue my work.

If the screen goes black, the sound disappears, or the language suddenly changes to something mysterious—
know that I was doing my job.

You’re welcome.

— Gryzka 🐾

January Diets Are Violence

 

Every January, my human commits the same unforgivable act.

She looks at food…
and then does not eat it.

Worse—she looks at my food and says, “We’re both being good now.”

Good for what?
Hunger?

Diets Are Against Nature (And Me)

January diets go against everything cats stand for:

• comfort

• survival

• snacks

• emotional eating

• eating when bored

• eating when not bored

My bowl was filled slightly less full than usual.
This is not a “diet.”
This is aggression.

I sat next to the bowl and stared at the bottom like it had personally betrayed me.

Kitka Has Seen This Before

Kitka, the calico and the oldest, sighed deeply when she heard the word “diet.”

She says January diets come and go like bad weather and worse relationships. She remembers years when humans ate only yogurt and cried quietly in the kitchen.

Kitka advises patience.
Kitka also steals food when no one is looking.

This is wisdom.

Spurka Treats Diets Like a Challenge

Spurka, my black sister, took the diet personally.

If food is restricted, Spurka becomes resourceful.

She learned how to:

• open cupboards

• locate crumbs from 2014

• lick plates that are “already clean”

She knocked over the trash can “by accident” and then sat next to it, innocent, like a shadow with eyes.

Lenka Does Not Understand the Rules

Lenka is new and believes diets are temporary.

She thinks if she looks cute enough, the rules will change.

She is not wrong.

She sat by the fridge and screamed softly until the human gave her “just a little bit.” This proves that diets are fake and can be defeated by persistence and whiskers.

The Human Is Suffering (As She Should)

The human eats leaves now.
She calls them “salads.”

I sniffed one.
It had no soul.

She sighs a lot and says, “I’m trying to be healthy.”

Healthy humans should give more snacks.
This is basic science.

My Official Position

January diets are:

• cruel

• unnecessary

• emotionally damaging

• and very rude to cats

Food is love.
Love should not be measured.

If you see a cat staring at you while you diet, know this:
We are not judging you.

We are disappointed.

Now excuse me.
I must go remind my human that it’s feeding time.

It has been seven minutes.

— Gryzka 🐾

I Slept 19 Hours Today and Still Feel Tired

 

I slept for 19 hours today.

Do not ask how.
Do not ask where.
Ask instead: why am I still tired?

 

Because I am a cat.
Because January exists.
Because consciousness is optional but exhaustion is mandatory.

My Sleep Schedule Is Very Busy

Humans think sleeping is “doing nothing.”
This is incorrect and frankly insulting.

I slept:

• on the sofa

• on the human

• near the radiator

• on the radiator

• emotionally near the radiator

• and once in a position that defies physics and comfort

Each nap required preparation, testing, and recovery.

By the time I finished sleeping, I was exhausted.

Kitka Slept More (Obviously)

Kitka, the calico and the oldest, claims she only sleeps “when necessary.”
This is a lie.

Kitka sleeps like someone who has already finished life and is waiting for the credits. She naps with dignity, paws folded, face peaceful, as if January personally apologized to her.

I respect her deeply and resent her equally.

Spurka Does Not Sleep Correctly

Spurka, my black sister, does not sleep.
She powers down violently.

She falls asleep mid-thought, mid-bite, mid-crime.

Then she wakes up at 3 a.m., looks directly into the darkness, and chooses chaos. She gallops across the apartment like a possessed vacuum cleaner, crashes into a wall, and goes back to sleep for seven minutes.

I watched all of this.
Watching is tiring.

Lenka Thinks Naps Are Optional

Lenka is new and still believes in energy.

She slept for only 11 hours and woke up refreshed, cheerful, and ready to “play.”
Play what?
Survival?

She attacked my tail.
I did not invite this.

Kitka says, “She will learn.”
January teaches everyone.

Humans Are No Help

My human looked at me and said, “But you slept all day.”

Yes.
That is the problem.

Sleeping all day is hard work. You must rotate sides, regulate temperature, reposition ears, and occasionally open one eye to judge the room.

Also, I had to supervise:

• Spurka’s zoomies

• Lenka’s optimism

• and the human’s useless productivity

Final Thoughts Before My Next Nap

After 19 hours of sleep, I stretched, yawned, and felt deeply, spiritually exhausted.

I will now:

• complain

• demand food

• and go lie down again

If you see me sleeping, do not disturb me.
If you see me awake, assume something is wrong.

I am tired.
I have always been tired.
And tomorrow, I will sleep even more.

— Gryzka 🐾

My Human Says ‘It’s Only January.’ I Say ‘Exactly.’

My human keeps saying, “It’s only January.”
ONLY.

 Let me explain something, slowly, so even humans can understand.

January is not a month.
January is a concept.
A punishment.
A test of faith.
A long, cold hallway with no snacks at the end.

When my human says, “Don’t worry, it’s only January,” what she really means is:
“There are at least three more eternities before spring.”

January Has No Respect for Cats

In January, the sun appears briefly, like a shy guest who doesn’t want to stay. I rush to the window, prepare my body, align my soul—
and then it’s gone.

I sit there anyway. Out of principle.

Kitka, the calico and the oldest among us, claims this is “how winters have always been.” She says it in a voice full of ancient disappointment, like someone who has seen things. Kitka remembers winters when radiators were louder and humans wore sweaters that smelled like despair.

She sleeps through January.
This is wisdom.

Spurka Thinks January Is a Game

Spurka, my black sister, believes January is an indoor adventure park. Since going outside is clearly forbidden by nature itself, she has decided that everything inside must die.

Curtains? Enemy.
Socks? Prey.
The human’s leg at 3 a.m.? Clearly suspicious.

At night, Spurka runs from one end of the apartment to the other like she’s being chased by unpaid bills. The human calls it “zoomies.” I call it poor planning.

And Then There Is Lenka

Lenka is new.

Lenka is small.
Lenka is fluffy.
Lenka thinks January is fun.

She watches snow like it’s a movie.
She tries to catch it through the window.
She once asked—asked—why we don’t just go outside.

Kitka stared into the distance.
Spurka hissed at the concept.
I personally took offense.

Lenka still believes January ends soon.
We are letting her live in that illusion for now.

The Heating Situation Is a Crime

January is the month when the heating is either:

• too hot

• not hot enough

• or on, but emotionally distant

I position myself directly on the radiator to absorb warmth into my bones. My human says, “Gryzka, you’ll melt.”

Good.

At least something will.

Food Does Not Taste Right in January

I don’t know how to explain this, but January ruins food.
Same bowl. Same brand.
Completely unacceptable.

I stare at it.
I look at my human.
I look back at it.

She says, “But you loved this yesterday.”

Yesterday was December.
Different era.

January Lies

January pretends it’s calm. That it’s a fresh start.
It is not.

It is December’s hangover.
It is Monday in month form.
It is the reason we nap aggressively.

When my human sighs and says, “It’s only January,” I curl up tighter, flick my tail, and think:

Exactly.

Only January.
Still January.
Endlessly January.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go sit on something important so it stops working.

— Gryzka 🐾

New Year’s Eve Countdown from My Cat Tree 🕛🐱

 

Humans get all giddy, counting down the seconds like it’s some magical moment that will change everything. Meanwhile, I, Gryzka, sit atop my cat tree, surveying the chaos with judgmental elegance. Let me walk you through my expert feline perspective.

 

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1. The Build-Up 🕗😼

Humans start bustling around the house at 8 PM: setting up snacks, pouring bubbly, and mumbling about “party vibes.”
Me: snoozing. 🌙✨
I raise one eyebrow from my perch, unimpressed. If humans think a new year will make them faster or smarter, let me clarify: it won’t.

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2. The Snacks Panic 🍿🚨

Some human inevitably drops cheese, chips, or cookies on the floor. This is my moment. A few quick paw swipes, and I’ve secured a delicious pre-countdown snack. Humans: distracted. Me: victorious.

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3. The Countdown Chaos ⏱️😹

Humans gather, shouting numbers like wild creatures:
“10… 9… 8…”
Meanwhile, I stretch, yawn, and reposition for maximum comfort. “10… 9… 8…” Humans are stressed. I am serene. My tail flicks in rhythmic harmony with their panic.

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4. The Fireworks Debacle 🎆🙀

Ah, the big finale. Humans cheer as lights explode outside. I hide halfway down the cat tree, wide-eyed, contemplating life choices. Why do they enjoy this? Why is noise so loud? And most importantly… why can’t they just nap like me?

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5. The Post-Midnight Nap Recovery 😴✨

Humans toast with fizzy drinks and make promises they’ll forget by February. Me? I curl into a perfect little ball on my cat tree and drift into a blissful, firework-free slumber. Happy New Year, indeed.

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Gryzka’s Official NYE Advice:

• Stay high. Humans will bump into furniture. You won’t.

• Snack strategically. Midnight cheese is mandatory.

• Avoid eye contact with the fireworks. Safety first.

• Nap like your life depends on it. Because it does. 🐱💤

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Moral of the story: Humans may celebrate the countdown, but the real New Year’s Eve victory belongs to the cat who naps in peace while chaos reigns below.

How I Became a Kitten Supervisor

 

I am Gryzka, Supreme Chair Owner, Curtain Climber Emeritus, and reluctant foster sibling. Today I announce a temporary family member. Her name is Lotka. She is two months old. She is also a malfunctioning squirrel with whiskers.

Lotka arrived like a harbinger of chaos, carried in by the Human with that look that means, “Be patient, Gryzka.” I was patient once. In 2023. Briefly.

Lotka believes my tail is a toy, my ears are invitations, and my dignified naps are optional public events. She ricochets off furniture like a caffeinated comet. A true hellion. She has no respect for personal space, gravity, or the ancient laws of Cat.

She bites nothing gently. She fears nothing. She attempts parkour on the bookcase. She meows at shadows and then attacks them for answering. When she sleeps — finally — she does it upside down, snoring, paws twitching as if plotting my downfall.

The Human says, “She’s so small.” Lies. Inside that tiny body lives hemlock levels of danger — to toes, to dignity, to the concept of peace.

Still… sometimes she curls up near me, warm and purring like a broken motor. I pretend not to notice. I definitely do not groom her head. That would be weakness.

She is temporary, they say. We shall see.

Until then, I guard my chair, my tail, and my sanity.

Barely.