There are many things humans believe they own.
The house.
The television.
The refrigerator.
The strange little machine that makes coffee.
The internet.
I have news.
You don't own these things.
You merely pay for them.
There is an important distinction.
The cats own them.
Especially the sofa.
And unfortunately, there has been a serious disagreement regarding ownership of one particular section of that sofa.
The perfect cushion.
πΎ
It is soft.
It is warm.
It has exactly the right amount of human smell.
It receives afternoon sunlight.
It is slightly raised above the other cushions.
And, most importantly, if you curl up in exactly the correct position, nobody can easily move you.
It is magnificent.
It is also mine.
At least...
It was mine.
The Problem Began on a Tuesday
I had been sleeping on the perfect cushion for approximately forty-three minutes.
This is an important detail.
I had already arranged myself properly.
Front paws tucked.
Tail wrapped around body.
Eyes mostly closed.
Ears in a relaxed but operational position.
A perfect cat.
Then Kitka appeared.
She stopped.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
She looked at the cushion.
Then back at me.
I knew immediately.
Territorial negotiations had failed before they had even begun.
Kitka is older than me.
She has experience.
She has dignity.
She also has a very particular expression that means:
Move.
I pretended not to understand.
The Ancient Law of the Sofa
There are rules.
Humans don't know them because humans are not cats.
Obviously.
The first and most important law is:
If a cat is already sitting somewhere, that place belongs to the cat.
This is simple.
There are no exceptions.
If I am on the sofa, it is my sofa.
If Kitka is on the sofa, it is her sofa.
If Spurka is on the sofa, it is her sofa.
If Lenka is on the sofa...
Well.
Lenka probably doesn't know what she's doing.
But technically it is still her sofa.
The second law is even more important:
The moment a cat leaves a place, another cat may claim it.
This is called strategic succession.
Humans call it:
“Where did Gryzka go?”
Irrelevant.
I have left the cushion.
Therefore, someone else may occupy it.
But if I return three seconds later?
The cushion belongs to me again.
This is basic property law.
π️ The Four Claims
We held an emergency meeting.
Kitka claimed the cushion because she had occupied it first.
I claimed it because I had occupied it most recently.
Spurka claimed it because she had been watching it from across the room for twenty minutes.
Lenka claimed it because she was already sitting there.
Nobody had noticed Lenka.
This is often how Lenka wins.
She simply appears.
Kitka's Argument
Kitka was first to present her case.
She sat elegantly.
Very elegantly.
Then she said nothing.
This is Kitka's preferred negotiation technique.
Silence.
A long stare.
Perhaps a blink.
Possibly another stare.
She does not need speeches.
Her expression says:
I am older than you. I have seniority. I have shed fur on this sofa since before you understood the importance of this cushion.
A strong argument.
Unfortunately, I had evidence.
My Evidence
I pointed out that I had been sleeping there.
Kitka looked unimpressed.
I pointed out that the cushion had been warm because of me.
Still unimpressed.
I pointed out that I had arranged the blanket.
She looked at the blanket.
Then at me.
Then she sat down on the blanket.
On top of me.
This was not a counterargument.
This was an act of war.
πΎ
π⬛ Spurka's Secret Strategy
Spurka had said almost nothing during the entire meeting.
This should have worried us.
Spurka becomes quiet when she is planning something.
She disappeared.
Nobody knew where she went.
We continued arguing.
Five minutes later, I noticed that the perfect cushion was empty.
I looked at Kitka.
Kitka looked at me.
We both looked toward the kitchen.
Then we heard:
purr.
Spurka had taken the cushion.
How?
Nobody knew.
She had apparently been sitting there for several minutes.
Silent.
Invisible.
Successful.
This is why Spurka should never be underestimated.
π± Then Lenka Arrived
Lenka came running into the room.
She saw Spurka on the cushion.
She jumped onto the sofa.
She bounced across two cushions.
She landed directly beside Spurka.
Spurka opened one eye.
Lenka looked at her.
Spurka looked at Lenka.
Lenka tried to squeeze into the remaining three centimeters of cushion.
There was now:
One sofa.
One perfect cushion.
Two cats.
This was not sustainable.
Lenka did not care.
She began grooming herself.
Spurka moved approximately two centimeters.
Lenka moved approximately three centimeters.
Spurka moved again.
Lenka moved again.
Eventually both cats were occupying a space designed for one cat.
This is how cats solve housing problems.
Humans could learn from us.
π§ The Human Makes a Terrible Mistake
Then the human came into the room.
She looked at the sofa.
She looked at the cats.
She sighed.
Then she sat down.
On the perfect cushion.
Silence.
Four cats stared at her.
She looked around.
“What?”
What?
WHAT?
She had just occupied disputed territory without consulting any of us.
This was unacceptable.
Kitka stared.
Spurka stared.
Lenka stared.
I stared.
The human picked up her book.
She started reading.
I could hardly believe it.
⚖️ The Court Was Convened
I called an emergency session.
The case was:
The Cats vs. The Human
Charge:
Unauthorized occupation of prime sofa territory.
Evidence:
- one perfect cushion,
- four angry cats,
- one completely unaware human.
The verdict was unanimous.
Guilty.
Punishment:
Immediate removal from the cushion.
The human did not cooperate.
Therefore, we escalated.
πΎ Operation Human Displacement
Kitka sat beside her.
Spurka sat behind her.
Lenka climbed onto the blanket.
I approached from the front.
The human continued reading.
She was remarkably calm for someone surrounded by four determined cats.
I began with subtle tactics.
I stared.
Nothing.
I blinked slowly.
Nothing.
I put one paw on her leg.
Nothing.
I put another paw on her book.
She moved the book.
I put my entire body on the book.
She laughed.
This was becoming personal.
Phase Two
I sat directly in front of her face.
She moved left.
I moved left.
She moved right.
I moved right.
She said:
“Gryzka, what are you doing?”
I stared at her.
She stared at me.
Finally, she understood.
“Do you want the cushion?”
YES.
I had been extremely clear.
She moved.
I immediately jumped into the perfect position.
Victory.
ππ―
π️ The Peace Treaty
We eventually established a new agreement.
The sofa would be divided into four official feline territories.
Territory A:
Gryzka.
Prime cushion.
Obviously.
Territory B:
Kitka.
The warm corner.
Territory C:
Spurka.
The dark side where nobody bothers her.
Territory D:
Lenka.
Wherever she happens to land.
The human receives the remaining space.
This is generous.
She has accepted the agreement.
More or less.
π The Sofa Laws
I have now written the official Feline Sofa Constitution.
Article 1
A cat sitting on a cushion has absolute ownership of said cushion.
Article 2
A sleeping cat cannot be moved.
Article 3
A blanket occupied by a cat becomes feline property.
Article 4
A human may sit on the sofa only after obtaining verbal or non-verbal permission.
Article 5
Permission may be withdrawn at any moment.
Article 6
If a cat places one paw on a cushion, the entire cushion is considered occupied.
Article 7
If a human says, “There's plenty of room,” there is not.
Article 8
If a human says, “Move over,” the cat must pretend not to hear.
Article 9
If a cat moves voluntarily, this does not mean the human may take the original position.
Article 10
The perfect cushion belongs to Gryzka.
This final article cannot be appealed.
πΌ What Humans Don't Understand
Humans think cats are fighting over furniture.
We are not.
We are fighting over principles.
The sofa represents security.
Comfort.
Warmth.
Status.
And the ability to look at a human who wants to sit down and silently communicate:
No.
This is extremely important for maintaining household balance.
Without cats, humans would become too confident.
They would sit wherever they wanted.
They would walk wherever they wanted.
They would put their laptops wherever they wanted.
They might even fold blankets without permission.
We cannot allow this.
πΎ The Final Incident
Last night, I discovered the human asleep on the perfect cushion.
Again.
I stood beside the sofa.
I stared at her.
She did not move.
I waited.
Still nothing.
I climbed onto the sofa.
She opened one eye.
“Gryzka?”
I stared.
She moved one leg.
I sat down.
She moved another leg.
I stretched out.
She sighed.
Then she lifted the blanket.
I crawled underneath.
There.
Peace.
The human went back to sleep.
I curled up beside her.
Kitka arrived twenty minutes later.
She climbed onto the other side.
Spurka appeared shortly afterward.
Lenka came running in because apparently everyone else was having fun.
Soon the entire sofa was occupied.
The human was pushed into approximately twelve centimeters of space.
She looked around.
Four cats.
One sofa.
No room.
She sighed.
“Why do I even have a sofa?”
I closed my eyes.
Excellent question.
