The Season of Buzz

 It is upon us.

The Season of Buzz.
The time when tiny, flappy, winged demons rise from the depths of who-knows-where and dare to trespass upon my kingdom — the living room ceiling.

Tonight, one such villain arrived.

It hovered. It taunted.
It did mosquito things — buzzed near Mom’s ear, did a loop-de-loop, and smirked.

Mom, brave but tragically under-skilled, grabbed a magazine.
She swatted.
She missed.
She yelled, “Ugh, where is it now?!”

It laughed. I swear it laughed.

And then —
I rose.

One elegant stretch. A slow blink. A calculated flick of the tail.

Then, with the grace of a ninja ballerina trained by ancient masters, I LEAPT into the air… paws first… claws ready…
SMACK.

The beast was no more.

I landed silently on the arm of the sofa.
Mom stared at me.
Wide-eyed. Amazed.
And whispered:

“You… murder princess.”

YES.
FINALLY. SOME. RESPECT.

I purred, modestly.
Spurka started a slow clap. Kitka rolled her eyes and muttered something about "dramatic flair."

Let the record show: I saved humanity.
She owes me snacks.

Deadly and dignified,
Gryzka – Slayer of Buzz,

Sticky Situations: My Fur, My Rules

 It started like any other June day — sunbeam on the balcony, birds gossiping in the trees, Kitka pretending to be a philosopher in a flowerpot.

Peace. Serenity. Dignity.

And then… it happened.

Mom approached with the object.
The sticky beast.
The cylindrical horror.
The lint roller.

I knew something was wrong. Her voice was too sweet. Her smile? Suspiciously wide.
“Gryzkaaa, come here, sweetie! Let me just get some fuzz off you…”

Ma’am. I am fuzz. That is my identity.

I ran under the table. She followed. I slithered behind the couch. She lunged.
It was war.

When she finally caught me, I screamed — the ancient battle cry of our ancestors:
"MRRRRREEEOOOWWWWWW!"

She rolled.
I twisted.
She rolled again.
I bit the lint roller.
It bit back.

We grappled. We struggled. I hissed like a tea kettle possessed.
Kitka peeked around the corner with popcorn. Spurka pretended to film it for YouTube.

Finally, I escaped, floofed beyond recognition. My fur now held the static charge of an angry thundercloud.
But I had won.

The lint roller lay on the floor — chewed. Defeated. Slightly hairy.

Mom looked at me, hair sticking out at heroic angles, and whispered, “You look like you were hit by a blow dryer in a tornado.”

I call it couture.

So yes, I am fluffier than ever.
Yes, I lost some dignity.
But I gained legend status.

The Great June Lint Roller Massacre shall be remembered.

Forever dramatic,
Gryzka, Survivor of Stickiness,

Thirst for Justice

I have had enough. The injustice! The audacity! The shallow betrayal!

I, Gryzka, a creature of impeccable taste and intellect, deserve only the finest of hydration vessels. And yet, there it is, the tragic excuse for a water bowl, sitting there smugly on the floor, mocking me with its insufficient depth. How could she? How could my beloved human betray me like this?

I paced back and forth, eyeing the pitiful little bowl. "This is not water. This is... a puddle of mediocrity!" I declared, raising my paw in protest. She looked at me, confused. As if she didn’t understand the severity of the situation.

I took dramatic, purposeful steps towards the bowl, sniffed it once, and then took one slow, disgusted step back. I turned to face her, tail high. "This is not how you hydrate a queen," I said, my voice dripping with disdain.

I flicked my tail and jumped up on the counter, where the REAL water lives. The glorious, deep glass. But I did not drink. No, this was about sending a message. I stared at her, and then at the bowl, and then back at her. "Fix it."

She sighed, unsure of what to do with her feisty little feline. "What’s wrong with the water bowl?" she asked, perplexed.

I gave her the look. The one that says, "You're clearly not worthy of this responsibility, but I’ll allow it to continue out of sheer kindness."

I tapped my paw gently on the counter’s edge, as if to say, Please, try again. You're almost there. Then, I looked back at the sad little water bowl and meowed again, louder this time, for dramatic effect, “Water should be deep enough for a respectable dip. This... is an insult to hydration.”

And so, she began the ritual of refilling the bowl, adding extra water as I demanded, but no, it was still shallow. Not deep enough for me to fully submerge my paw in, and that was the whole point. The protest continues.

As I lay back, finally, with my victory half-won, I turned to the water bowl one last time. I gave it a stern, disapproving glance, as if to say, It’s not enough, but I’ll make do… for now. And that’s when I finally allowed myself a delicate sip.

This was only the beginning of my revolution.

Stay tuned for more… The Hydration Rebellion: Part II.

Midnight Zoomies Club

 3:00AM. The world is quiet. The moon is high. The humans are snoring like tranquilized hippos.

Suddenly — a sound.
THUMP. THUD. SKRRT-SKRRRT.

Spurka.

There she was, in full chaotic glory, eyes like two olives possessed, tail puffed to the size of a small raccoon, galloping down the hallway like her butt was on fire.

With a war cry ("MrrrAAOWWW!"), she launched herself into battle — against the hallway rug.

Yes. The hallway rug. The one that’s been peacefully lying there since 2019.

Clearly, it had wronged her.

She flung it into the air. Bit it. Kicked it. Rolled in it like it owed her fish money. I watched from the armchair, one eye open, deeply concerned... for the rug.

Then she turned to me, breathless, eyes gleaming, and said:

“You in?”

Of course I was in. I’m a sister, not a snitch.

I leapt down with all the grace of a nap-disturbed empress and joined the revolution. Together, we did laps. LAPS, I say! Living room to hallway, hallway to kitchen, kitchen to mysterious invisible corner where ghosts probably live, back to hallway. Full zoomie circuit.

Kitka watched us from the windowsill with the expression of a judgmental librarian who has seen too much.

3:12AM.
Mom appeared.

In a robe.
Hair sideways.
One sock.
Holding a slipper like she was going to smack a demon with it.

She stared at the rug — now folded like a burrito — and then at us. I froze. Spurka did one last defiant butt wiggle and belly-slid under the couch.

Mom sighed. The deep sigh of a woman who hasn’t slept since the 90s.
She said nothing. Just walked away, muttering something that sounded like, “They need jobs.”

3:17AM.
Spurka popped her head out from under the couch, eyes wild with pride.

“We meet again tomorrow night?” she whispered.

I licked my paw thoughtfully and replied,
“Only if there’s tuna at the afterparty.”

We are artists.
We are athletes.
We are The Midnight Zoomies Club.

And humans?
They just don’t get it.

Fluffily yours,
Gryzka – Zoomie Support Officer, Senior Division