Gryzka's Time to Shine: Calendar Edition

You know, it’s bad enough that I have to deal with winter, the uninvited snow, and the endless rounds of “why don’t you just nap in the sunshine?” But there’s one thing I simply cannot stand—the calendar.

It was just put up. Fresh, brand-new, sitting there smugly on the wall. It has all these dates on it, and I swear it’s plotting against me. The humans have been obsessed with it since they brought it into the house, and I’m about to lose my fur over it.

They keep flipping the pages! Every time I walk into the room, they’re turning it. Turning it! As if the old page isn’t good enough anymore. And you know what the worst part is?

I don’t get a vote.

Now, I’ve been around long enough to know that I should be consulted on important matters. I mean, I’m the one who knows when it’s breakfast time. I’m the one who knows when the sunbeam is at its peak for the ultimate nap session. So why, why, do they get to decide which page is next? Who made them in charge of time?

Today, I watched as they turned it from January to February. Oh, no—oh no—they didn’t. They took January away like it never even happened. Just like that. Poof! Gone. As if my nap-filled, snow-staring days meant nothing. I had important plans for the remaining weeks of January. I was going to figure out how to make snowballs appear, and now they’re just gone. And for what? To make room for another month? It’s outrageous!

I marched up to the wall and gave the calendar a very forceful paw tap. As if to say, “I know what you’re doing, and I don’t approve.” The humans just laughed at me. LAUGHED! They even said something about "marking the days." Well, how dare they mark anything without consulting me!

So, naturally, I took it upon myself to give the calendar a piece of my mind. I spent the next half-hour swatting at the page for March—that’s right, the next month—until it flopped over. I mean, surely they’ll understand. I was just helping them decide which month comes next. Clearly, March was in need of my supervision.

They tried to stop me, but I know when to be persistent. I gave the calendar one final, fierce swipe, sending it swaying dangerously. The humans acted like they were annoyed, but I saw the glint of respect in their eyes. They were thinking, "Wow, Gryzka really knows how to take charge."

I mean, if I could just get my paws on that calendar for one whole day, I could create a schedule of my own. I’d have tuna Tuesdays, nap Thursdays, and sunbeam Sundays (even if they’re fake, I’ll still claim them). But no. The humans continue flipping through the pages like it’s some game.

I’ve decided that next year, I’m going to design my own calendar. I’ll fill it with days dedicated to all the things I love, like:

• "Chasing Shadows Day"
• "Napping in the Most Annoying Spot" Day
• "Knocking Everything Off the Counter" Day
• "Whisker-Wiggling in Front of the Window" Day

Until then, I suppose I’ll just have to deal with this ‘calendar nonsense.’ I’ll watch it. I’ll judge it. And I’ll keep swatting at the pages when no one’s looking.

Yours in determined rebellion,
Gryzka, Queen of Time

Snow Way Out

It has been approximately 763 days since winter began. Okay, fine, it’s been a couple of months, but who’s counting? (Answer: Me. I am counting, because my glorious sunbathing sessions have been cruelly replaced by “staying warm.” Ridiculous.)

The balcony is still covered in that cursed white fluff, and the humans keep laughing at me when I try to predict when it will vanish. “Silly cat,” they say, “you can’t tell the future.” Can’t I? Have they met me? I predicted the tuna can opening precisely six minutes before it happened yesterday. I’m practically a genius.

So here are my Winter’s End Predictions:

1. When Will Winter End?
   I licked my paw and consulted the Great Cosmic Paw for answers. It told me… “Soon.” Soon could mean tomorrow. Soon could mean three more eternities of snow. Ugh. Thanks for nothing, Paw.

2. When Will the Snow Disappear?
   I conducted a scientific experiment. I batted a piece of snow off the balcony ledge and observed it for… five seconds. It melted. Conclusion: All the snow should disappear in five seconds if it just tries harder. Lazy snow.

3. When Will the Sun Return?
   I’ve noticed that the humans stare at a box with numbers in it and mutter about “weather forecasts.” Clearly, the sun is hiding because it’s shy. I’ve decided to help by practicing my best sun-calling yowls on the windowsill at dawn. No results yet, but Spurka says my vocal range is improving.

4. What Will Happen to the Flowers?
   The plants on the balcony are dead. All of them. I sniffed a pot this morning, and it practically screamed “Help me.” So, I dug into the soil to rescue the poor thing, but the human yelled at me. Excuse me, I am trying to perform plant CPR here! Humans are so ungrateful.

5. When Can I Resume My Sunbathing?
   Sunbathing is an art. I miss it. The way the warm rays make my fur shimmer, the perfect pose on the balcony ledge… I even miss the slight risk of Spurka tackling me mid-sunbath. (She always pretends she doesn’t know I’m there. Lies!)

In conclusion, winter needs to end NOW. I am officially declaring war on snow. The first step in my master plan? Steal one of the human’s “calendar” things and find out who is responsible for February. Someone must pay for this endless cold.

Until then, I will continue my sun-calling yowls, paw-licking consultations, and experimental snow batting. I will also stage a peaceful protest by sitting in front of the fireplace, refusing to move until summer returns.

Yours in frosty solidarity,
Gryzka

Bathrobe Bandit Strikes

It was 3 a.m., and the house was quiet, as it should be. The humans were peacefully snoring away in their beds, unaware of the brilliant, mischievous plan that was brewing in my brilliant little mind. I had already achieved my usual nighttime activities—zoomies, knocking things over, staring into space for no reason—but I needed something more… thrilling.

That’s when I saw it. The bathrobe. It hung there, perfectly placed, just within my reach. The belt dangled temptingly from the edge of the bathroom door like a prize waiting to be claimed. It was too perfect to resist.

I crept closer, tail flicking in excitement. Slowly, silently, like the master thief I am, I reached up and grabbed it with my claws. Yes, I thought, this is it. This is my moment.

With a victorious flick of my paw, the bathrobe belt was mine. I immediately took off, dragging it behind me like a prize in the middle of an intense heist. I scampered through the house with my loot, darting in and out of rooms, making sure to give the humans plenty of opportunities to admire my handiwork. It wasn’t easy, but I’m not just any cat—I’m the Bathrobe Bandit.

The human stirred, groaning slightly as they heard the rustle of fabric. They tried to ignore it. Big mistake. I sped past them, the bathrobe belt flapping wildly behind me like a flag of glory. As I made my way down the hall, the human sat up, rubbing their eyes, clearly confused. “Gryzka…” they mumbled, “what are you doing with my bathrobe?”

What am I doing? Oh, I’m just engaging in a time-honored game of "who’s in charge around here." I wasn’t about to give up my treasure. So, I tugged harder, dragging the belt into the living room like it was a victory lap.

But here’s the twist: I decided to play the long game. Instead of just running off with it, I flopped down in front of the couch, the belt wrapped around my paws, and gave the human my best innocent look. “What?” I said with my wide-eyed expression. “You left it there. I’m just… playing.”

The human sighed, clearly defeated, but I could see the faintest smile tugging at their lips. Of course, they wouldn’t admit it, but they were impressed by my resourcefulness. I’ve been known to turn anything into a toy, and the bathrobe belt was no exception.

By 3:30 a.m., I had successfully paraded the bathrobe belt across the living room floor at least seven times. The human finally gave up, mumbling something about “never getting any sleep” as they tried to roll over.

Mission accomplished.

In conclusion, I have now claimed the bathrobe belt as my own, and I’ll be sure to use it again tomorrow night, maybe at 4 a.m. or 5. I’ll keep them on their toes. And the best part? They can’t even stay mad at me. After all, I’m just here to entertain. You’re welcome, human.

Zooming Through the Night

 Winter blues? Not for me! Who needs a cozy nap when there are zoomies to be had? This month, I’ve perfected the art of the Midnight Zoomie, and let me tell you, it's nothing short of a spectacle.

It all starts when the humans are nice and comfy in their warm beds. I wait until I hear that soft, rhythmic snoring—snore, snore, snore—and then, with the grace of a tiny lion on caffeine, I make my move.

I begin with the stir. I hop off the couch, stretch my legs, give a big yawn, and look around like I’m thinking of something important. The humans barely notice. I eye my target—the hallway. It’s long, narrow, and perfect for a full-speed sprint.

Then, without warning, I charge. Full throttle, claws out, tail straight behind me like a rocket. I zip through the hall, skidding like a pro at the corners, my paws tapping a symphony on the floorboards. I’m a blur of fur, and I know it’s a good one because I can hear the human’s muffled “Gryzka, what are you doing?” from the other room. It’s a beautiful sound, their confusion.

But I’m not done. Oh no. The real fun begins when I hit the turnaround. You see, this isn't just a race—it’s a series of obstacles. I speed down the hallway, leap over the armchair like a graceful gazelle, and execute the perfect U-turn, catching the rug as I slide past it. It’s a work of art.

The human stirs. I hear their sleepy mumble, “No, no, no, not again…” but it’s too late. I’m already off again—this time, through the living room, weaving between the coffee table and the couch with Olympic-level agility. A crash? Oh, that was just me knocking over a vase. No biggie. The mission must continue.

At this point, the human has reached the peak of confusion, sitting up in bed, blinking like they’ve just seen a comet. I look them in the eye, puff my tail out in victory, and zip straight into the kitchen. A few circles around the table and back again—now that’s a proper zoomie routine.

But it doesn’t end there. I go in for the final dramatic leap—straight onto the back of the couch. I sit, calmly lick my paw, and glance over at the human who’s still in a daze. “What?” I say with my eyes. “Wasn’t that fun? You should try it sometime.”

The humans never do. But I’ll be honest, I’m already planning my next midnight race. Winter may be cold, but with these zoomies, I’ll make sure the house stays lively—and the humans stay perpetually on edge.

Purrsonal Trainer Extraordinaire

 Today, my human decided to engage in some kind of odd ritual called "working out." I, Gryzka, as the ever-helpful fitness coach of this household, took it upon myself to supervise.

It began with the unrolling of the yoga mat. Naturally, I assumed this mat was laid out for me. I immediately plopped myself in the center, stretched luxuriously, and began a thorough grooming session. The human tried to nudge me off, mumbling something about "needing space." Excuse me, whose mat is this? Mine now.

Then came the "planks." Oh, what a sight! The human balanced on their hands and toes, shaking like a wobbly tower of treats. I strolled underneath them, just to add some excitement, and parked myself directly in their line of sight. Maintaining eye contact while they struggled is key to a trainer’s intimidation tactics.

Next, they attempted "sit-ups." I leaped onto their chest mid-crunch. A perfect demonstration of core strength—on my part, obviously. The human groaned but didn’t move me. Points for effort, I suppose.

When they moved on to stretches, I decided to demonstrate the superior feline technique: the full-body stretch. First, the forward paw reach, followed by the perfect back arch. I even threw in a tail flick for flair. The human tried to imitate me and fell over. Admirable attempt, but they’ll never achieve my level of grace.

After an exhausting session of my coaching (for them, not me), the human flopped onto the mat, sweating and panting. I sauntered over, plopped myself on their stomach, and purred. I call this the "cool-down phase." They call it "trapped by a furry dictator." Tomato, tomahto.

In conclusion, the workout was a great success. My human got their exercise, and I got a nap on a warm stomach. A win-win, if you ask me.

New Year’s “Midnight” Madness

Ugh. Humans. They’re just the worst sometimes. All this talk about midnight and fireworks—it’s like they forget the most important part of the day: napping. Midnight is prime nap time, and yet, here they are, running around, getting all excited, acting like they’re going to change into something called a "New Year." How utterly ridiculous.

They've been making noise for hours. They're clinking glasses, shouting things I don't even understand, and, worst of all, they're ignoring the most important thing: me. I’ve tried to get their attention by circling their legs, giving them my patented "feed me now" stare, but they just keep yapping about "resolutions" and "celebrations." None of that matters, people. What matters is sleeping and napping—ideally, for at least 12 hours. But no, I’m forced to stay awake. The injustice!

It’s now getting closer to what they call "midnight," which means—brace yourself—more of their yelling. More. And of course, there’s a party hat. They tried to put it on my head. Did I look impressed? Absolutely not. Do they think I’m some sort of circus act? I’m a cat. Not a party prop.

But then—then the fireworks start.

I hear them before I see them, a strange whumppp sound followed by a loud BOOM! It’s not a normal sound, and for a second, I freeze. That’s when I hear it again—another explosion in the sky. But this time, I don’t freeze. Oh no. I go into stealth mode.

I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’ll tell you one thing: those sparkles are coming from somewhere, and I am going to catch them.

I’m crouched low to the ground, moving through the living room like a professional hunter. My tail is flicking in sharp, tiny movements, warning anyone who might be around that I'm in the zone. Mom is still clapping her hands and laughing with that loud noise. But I’m not distracted. I am focused.

The first burst of light appears in the sky. It’s a golden sparkle, dancing in the air. There! I pounce! I leap toward the window, paws extended, eyes wide with determination. The sparkle vanishes before I can grab it, but that doesn’t discourage me. Oh no, not Gryzka. I can feel them. I can hear them. They’re coming.

I stay low to the floor, creeping like a shadow in the night, waiting for the next explosion. There it is—a blue one this time, a big one! I dash towards the window again, jumping on the couch, my paws slapping against the glass, but—nope, it’s gone. Mom laughs from the other side of the room. I glare at her. She’s not helping!

I take a moment to reassess. Maybe I’m not fast enough. Maybe it’s about timing. Ah, yes. Timing. I’ll wait. Patience is key.

Another series of fireworks. A cascade of pinks and purples fills the sky. This time, I don’t just jump—I spring like a lion! I launch myself across the room, making the precise calculated leap that will guarantee I land on the window sill.

Except... I misjudge the distance and slam my face directly into the window.

Thud.

I blink, disoriented. Mom bursts into laughter. Why do they always laugh when I’m doing important, strategic work? It's disrespectful.

No matter. I’m undeterred. I pull myself back up and make a final, grand leap. The biggest firework yet! It’s an entire shower of sparkles, all white and dazzling, filling the sky! I go for it. I stretch my paws wide. The window is no longer an obstacle. I’m almost there, just inches away from grabbing it—

CRASH!

I fall to the ground with a loud thud, the force of my jump sending me tumbling in an unexpected roll across the rug. There’s a second of stunned silence before I realize... it’s not my fault. It’s the window’s fault! Why can’t the sparkles come closer to me? This is clearly a design flaw in their fireworks plan. Not my fault. But I look up, and Mom is—yep, she's laughing. Again. So disrespectful.

I lick my paw in defiance and sit up like nothing happened. These fireworks? They're beneath me. I'm too proud for this, obviously. The next one, though. The next one will be mine.

But as I look out the window, the sparkling display finally starts to fade. It’s over. And you know what? As the humans cheer and drink their strange drinks, I walk over to my favorite blanket, curl up, and begin to groom myself.

Tomorrow, I’ll have a new plan. Tonight, I’ll sleep. And maybe, just maybe, when they start up again next year, I'll catch those sparkles... but only if they’re within pouncing distance.

That’s a promise. But for now, I have a midnight nap to catch up on.