Let me set the scene. It was a normal Wednesday. The sun was shining, the kibble was stale, and I was in the middle of my 7th nap of the morning when something horrific rolled into the living room.
A massive, humming, clunky monster machine. With buttons. And beeping.
My human called it… “a treadmill.”
Ah, yes. Another device for humans to pretend they’re tigers. Spoiler: they are not.
She unboxed it with great excitement, mumbling things like “new lifestyle,” “morning runs,” and “summer body,” while I sat on the table slowly blinking in disbelief.
After an hour of pushing buttons, checking manuals, and saying words she probably wouldn’t want printed on a mug, the machine roared to life. She got on. She walked. She panted. She tripped. I watched. I judged. I nearly called for backup.
Kitka, however…
Kitka fell in love.
The moment my human left the room, Kitka climbed onto the treadmill like it was a royal float in a parade. She curled up, stuck all four paws in the air, and began to snore—the kind of snore that says, “I live here now.”
Now the treadmill serves its true purpose:
-
0 km run
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6 naps per day
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Light fur coating over the screen
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Occasional biscuit crumbs in the cup holder
My human tried to use it once more and ended up accidentally launching Kitka halfway across the room. Kitka responded by dramatically limping like a wounded Victorian poet for three hours.
The treadmill has not moved since.
Neither has Kitka.
Moral of the story:
You don’t need a treadmill to run, dear human.
You just need a Gryzka chasing you with a dead moth at 3am.
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