Today, I stumbled upon yet another questionable human invention they call “hot chocolate.” Apparently, it’s a brown liquid they treat with great reverence, almost as if it’s some sacred potion. And let me tell you, I now know why—because it’s positively dangerous. Yes, it’s true; I, Gryzka, am now officially at war with hot chocolate.
It all began innocently enough. The humans had settled down for what they called a “cozy evening,” which means I have extra laps and blankets at my disposal. As soon as I spotted the human sitting down with her steaming mug of mystery liquid, I promptly trotted over to her lap, only to be ignored. Ignored! She was too busy cradling her mug, mumbling about how it smelled like “melted dreams.” I was skeptical. Last I checked, dreams didn’t smell like singed fur and betrayal.
Naturally, I had to investigate. So, with stealth any lion would envy, I hopped up next to her, eyeing the mug suspiciously. There it sat, a rich, dark brown pool with little wisps of steam rising from the surface. My nose twitched. There was a faint hint of something sweet, but mostly it smelled warm—almost too warm. The human, oblivious to the danger she was exposing herself to, was blowing gently on it to cool it down. I peered closer.
She looked down at me, chuckling. “Oh, Gryzka, you’re so curious! You’d probably love hot chocolate if you could try it.”
I shot her a skeptical look. I do not need to try your strange liquid concoctions. But the challenge had been issued, and I would not back down. I gave her my best “just casually stretching here” move, inching ever closer. I extended one delicate paw, ready to poke at this alleged dream-melting liquid, when disaster struck.
My paw slipped. And the tip of my delicate, pristine white toe pads dipped right into the molten depths of hot chocolate.
It was scalding. My paw shot back instantly, and I couldn’t help but let out an indignant yowl. My human jumped, clearly startled by my noble war cry, and exclaimed, “Oh, Gryzka! Did you burn yourself?”
Burn myself? The audacity! She burned me, bringing this molten lava into my kingdom with no warning label whatsoever. I shot her a scathing glare and immediately began licking my paw furiously, as if I could somehow scrub away the horror of the hot chocolate. The taste, I must say, was mildly intriguing—sweet, with a strange hint of bitterness. But mostly, it tasted like betrayal.
The human, finally realizing the gravity of the situation, set down her mug and reached over to inspect my paw. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you’d try to touch it!” Her apology was inadequate. In fact, it was insulting. She, who knows my every habit, could not anticipate my dedication to investigating every single item in this house? Ridiculous.
After giving my paw a final, defiant lick, I turned my back on her, flicking my tail for added emphasis. I strolled across the room, dramatically settling myself in my favorite chair. The human, still fussing, tried to follow me with a fresh blanket as a peace offering. I ignored it. I wanted her to know the depth of her betrayal and feel my cold shoulder all evening.
But the story doesn’t end there.
Later, after I’d deemed her sufficiently punished and allowed her to pet me again, she made a rookie mistake. She set her mug down on the floor. You read that right. She left the hazardous chocolate lava within my reach! Now, a lesser cat might have considered this foolishness and moved on, but not I. If this hot chocolate was to be a recurring visitor in our home, it was my duty to educate myself further.
I approached the mug cautiously this time. It was still warm, but not the finger-melting temperature from earlier. I sniffed it with great suspicion, detecting notes of milk and what they call “marshmallows.” They were white, fluffy blobs floating in the muck, and the sight of them filled me with rage. I swatted at one, sending it splashing into the drink. Take that, I thought, for my burned toe pad.
Just as I was making my move to bat another marshmallow to its doom, the human returned, catching me mid-paw. She gasped, grabbing the mug and lifting it away as though she were saving it from some heinous crime.
“Oh no, Gryzka! You’re going to spill it everywhere!” she scolded. The nerve. I’m the one in danger, here. She just didn’t understand the lengths I was willing to go to defend our home from this mysterious brown liquid and its evil, blob-like minions.
So, I’ve made a decision. All hot chocolate mugs are now banned in my kingdom. I’ve left some subtle claw marks on the side of the coffee table as a reminder, a warning for any future hot chocolate-bearing mugs that may enter my domain. I am Gryzka, Guardian of the Realm, and protector of feline paws. And let it be known that if any more mugs of hot chocolate dare cross my path, they will meet the same marshmallow-swatting, paw-dipping fury.
To the humans of the world, consider this your warning: Hot chocolate is a hazard, and I will not stand for it.
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