Spurka’s September Meltdown: A Cucumber Incident

 It was an ordinary September afternoon. The humans had returned from something called "the farmer's market," which I can only assume is a magical place where vegetables appear in tote bags and I get scolded for sniffing them.

Anyway, one of those vegetables—a long, green, mildly suspicious thing—rolled out of a paper bag and onto the kitchen floor.

It was a cucumber.

Now listen, I’m not one of those dramatic cats. I don’t jump at shadows or scream at vacuum cleaners. I am composed. Regal. Dare I say... majestic.

Spurka is none of these things.

The moment she saw the cucumber, she locked eyes with it like it was a demon in vegetable form. Her tail puffed up to resemble a pinecone. Her ears flattened. Her pupils turned into dinner plates.

Then she SCREAMED. Not a meow. Not a hiss. A full-on banshee wail.

Kitka and I paused mid-sunbeam. We exchanged glances.

“It’s just a cucumber,” I said, very reasonably. “Possibly a weird zucchini. You’re fine.”

Spurka leapt onto the table in a flurry of panic, knocking over a vase, a fork, and a peach. The peach hit the floor and rolled toward the cucumber.

Now there were TWO suspicious roundish things.

Spurka hissed like a kettle about to explode.

“You don’t understand, Gryzka!” she shrieked. “It’s plotting something! IT'S PLOTTING!”

I calmly walked over to the cucumber, sniffed it, and gently tapped it with my paw. It didn’t explode. It didn’t even blink.

“It’s a salad ingredient,” I explained. “Not a villain.”

She didn’t listen. She hissed at me like I’d betrayed the entire feline race. Then she jumped down, ran into the bathroom, and hid in the sink for 40 minutes.

When the human returned, she found a fork on the floor, a wet peach under the fridge, and three cats in wildly different states of calm.

"What happened here?" she asked.

Kitka yawned. I pointed my paw at the cucumber.

The human picked it up, rinsed it, and muttered, "You guys are so weird."

Spurka emerged from the sink an hour later, twitchy and paranoid, muttering something about "veggie sleeper agents" and "zucchini spies."

To this day, she side-eyes every green object in the kitchen.

And we never speak of The Incident.

Except when we do.

Loudly.

During dinner parties.

---

P.S. I’m still not convinced it wasn’t a weird zucchini.

P.P.S. The peach is now behind the washing machine. We honor it as a fallen hero.

The Moth I Loved and Lost

It was a balmy September night. The kind of night when the moon hangs low like a fat ball of cheese in the sky and the humans are finally asleep, leaving the windows cracked open just enough to invite magic inside… and moths.

That’s when I saw him.

Bernard.

He fluttered in with the grace of a half-drunk fairy, circling the lamp like it owed him money. His wings were patchy, his body slightly crooked, and he had the erratic flying style of someone who’d recently bumped into a screen door. In short: he was perfect.

Our eyes met.
(Well, I have slitted pupils and he had those compound googly ones, but still—it was a moment.)

He flitted. I crouched.
He soared. I leapt.
We danced.

I did a mid-air pirouette that would've made a ballet instructor weep into her espresso. Bernard spun like a dusty little helicopter. I landed on the back of the couch with all the elegance of a furry ninja. He dive-bombed a lampshade like a tiny daredevil with a death wish.

We were made for each other.

The night pulsed with electricity.
The moonlight hit my whiskers just right.
Bernard paused mid-flight, hovered… and then, I—
…I…

Well.

I ATE HIM.

It was an accident! My paw went up, my mouth opened, he zigged when he should’ve zagged, and suddenly… Bernard was a crunchy, powdery memory on my tongue.

I froze.
Stared at the lamp.
Gagged a little.

“BERNARD?!” I cried. (Silently, because the humans already think I’m unstable.)

I sat there in the darkness, chewing regret.
Also wings.

---

For the rest of the night, I refused to move. I just lay on the windowsill, staring at the moon and mourning the love I consumed. Literally.

In the morning, the human asked why I was acting weird. I stared dramatically out the window and sighed so loud she Googled “Can cats get seasonal depression?”

---

R.I.P. Bernard.
You were weird, dusty, and utterly snackable.
You taught me that love is fleeting.
And that I should chew slower.

Forever yours (kind of),
Gryzka

---

P.S.
If any other moths are reading this: call me. 🐾

Rainy Days and Hairballs

 It began with a raindrop.

One single, pitiful plink against the window. I opened one eye, squinted toward the grey sky, and gave it exactly the attention it deserved: a long, theatrical sigh followed by a perfectly timed flop onto my side, like a Victorian actress fainting onto a fainting couch. (We don’t have a fainting couch, but the throw blanket on the armchair is worthy.)

Within ten minutes, the rain increased to a steady drizzle. The human lit a candle. A candle, mind you! Cinnamon-vanilla. I mean, if I wanted the room to smell like pastry and regret, I’d sleep in the oven.

I sat on the windowsill, glaring at birds smugly shaking their tailfeathers under a tree. One even winked at me. WINKED. The audacity.

The gloom settled in like a wet towel. I decided the room lacked drama. Something was missing. Something visceral. Something textural.

And that’s when I knew.

The moment demanded…
a hairball.

A masterpiece of mood.
A barf noir.
A drizzle of digestive expressionism.

So I began the ancient feline ritual of production:
Hack.
HAAACK.
Heh-heh-hhhHHHHAAACKKK—

Right in the center of the hallway rug.
The beige one. The expensive one. The one that screams “I trust my cat implicitly.”
(Amateur.)

The human, lured by the squelch of my triumph, rounded the corner holding a mug of tea and optimism.
She froze.
We locked eyes.
I narrowed mine.

"I am the storm," I whispered (telepathically, of course).
Then strutted into the bedroom like a damp weather goddess dropping the mic.

She spent ten minutes scrubbing the rug. I spent those ten minutes curled in a ball of smug on the warm laundry, purring like thunder, reflecting on my art.

Sometimes, rain inspires poets.
Sometimes, it inspires painters.

But me?
Rain makes me hurl performance art onto carpets.

You're welcome.

THE BACK-TO-SCHOOL PANIC

 September.

The month when the sun is lazy, the socks return, and—most tragically—the tiny humans next door resume their daily 7 a.m. screaming ritual.

Every morning, like clockwork, they shriek.
Someone always lost a shoe. Someone else refuses to eat their “suspicious toast.” Someone is screaming about math.
I feel this deeply.

Naturally, I decided to help.

So now I begin my contribution at 5:00 a.m. sharp.
I call it:
🎵 “The Song of My People: Back-to-School Edition.”
It begins with a slow, dramatic yowl in the hallway—echoing perfectly through the tiles.

Act I: “The Litter Box Is Wrong.”
Act II: “Where Is the Tuna I Dreamt Of?”
Act III: “I’m Just Going to Stare at the Wall and Howl Now.”

The human stumbles out of bed, looking like a sea sponge in a hoodie, whispering, “Why?”
I respond with a tail flick and a piercing soprano note that rattles the toaster.

Then, right at 7:00 a.m.—the Screaming Next-Door Children join in.
Their performance is chaotic and loud. Raw, unpolished, but undeniably committed.
It’s like a duet.
A symphony of suffering.

Kitka? Still asleep in the sock drawer.
Spurka? Hiding behind the curtain, muttering, “Not again.”
Cowards.

But me? I sing for all cats whose sleep has ever been disturbed by squeaky lunchboxes and mismatched shoelaces.

And tomorrow…
We go again.