No, I Will Not Wear a Costume

Greetings, minions, humans, and occasional fellow cats.

It is I, Gryzka, your supreme overlord, commentator of chaos, and connoisseur of dignity. Today, I must address a grave injustice: Halloween.

Step One: The Suggestion

Mom approached with the words that chilled my very soul:

“Gryzka, we need a costume for Halloween!”

I paused mid-grooming. I blinked. I considered whether this was some sort of test of patience.

Costume?

For me?

Do you realize what you are asking? My fur alone is a costume of perfection, woven from the finest grey tabby elegance.

Step Two: The Persuasion

She produced tiny hats, ridiculous capes, and even a plastic pumpkin “vest.”

“Look, Gryzka, you’ll be adorable!”

Adorable?

I am majestic. I am a goddess. I am not adorable. Adorable is for Kitka when she forgets she is a calico and thinks she’s a clown.

Spurka looked mildly interested. Or maybe she was plotting revenge for last week’s kibble incident.

Step Three: The Protest

I performed the Sarcastic Stare of Doom. I sat in the middle of the room, tail flicking like lightning. I meowed in slow, deliberate tones of disgust.

“Do you see what you’re asking? That I, Gryzka, wrap myself in human cloth?”

Kitka, of course, cheered for the hats. Spurka rolled dramatically on the floor in despair—possibly out of solidarity, possibly because she’s easily distracted.

Step Four: The Resolution

Mom sighed, muttered something about “grumpy cats” and “next year,” and left me to my rightful throne. I reclaimed the armchair.

Victory is mine. I remain un-costumed. I remain majestic. I remain undefeated.

Take note, humans: Halloween is for humans, not for me.

Forever fabulous,

**Gryzka, Costume-Free Queen of October** 🐾✨

Rainy Days: The Struggle of a Window Philosopher

Greetings, loyal readers (and you, Mom, who pretends not to read my blog but secretly does).

It is I, Gryzka, your favorite philosopher, queen of the windowsill, and professional critic of weather patterns.

Today’s topic: **rainy days.**

The Setup

It all begins with me taking my rightful place by the window. The stage is set: I, radiant and majestic, staring out into the wilderness (translation: the balcony). Normally, the scene outside offers endless entertainment: pigeons wobbling around like feathered clowns, leaves fluttering dramatically, and the occasional squirrel who dares to exist.

But on rainy days? Oh no.

Instead of my usual audience, I get… droplets.

 Droplets, the Silent Bullies

Let me explain the psychology here. Raindrops are basically little villains in liquid form. They hit the window with a *plink-plink-plonk*, then slide down in races I didn’t ask for.

Do you know what it’s like to spend thirty minutes cheering for Drop Number 7, only for Drop Number 12 to cheat and merge into a supersized droplet and win?

It’s devastating.

I demand fair play in raindrop racing, but nature is lawless.

 Existential Window Thoughts

As I sit there, paw delicately pressed against the cold glass, I begin to think deep thoughts, such as:

Why is water falling from the sky?

If I licked the window, would it taste like sadness?

Why do humans bring umbrellas instead of respecting the noble art of shaking themselves like we cats do?

Rain turns me from hunter to poet. From destroyer of toy mice to philosopher of puddles. It’s exhausting, being this profound.

The Human Response

And what does Mom do during this dramatic weather?

She sighs and says: “Oh, poor Gryzka, bored again.”

Excuse me?

I’m not “bored.” I’m conducting serious scientific observation from my post. Just because I also occasionally meow loudly at invisible ghosts and swat the curtain doesn’t mean I’m not working.

The Struggle is Real

Rainy days test me.

They rob me of birds. They force me into competitions with droplets. They push me into the abyss of existential questions.

But worry not, readers. I endure, as only a noble cat philosopher can.

Now excuse me, I must go nap for three hours to recover from the trauma of being profound.

With rainy dignity,

**Professor Gryzka, PhD in Window Studies** 🐾

A Tragedy at Breakfast

This morning, a tragedy struck. Mom dropped a biscuit.

Naturally, we inspected it. Spurka, claimed first rights. She sniffed, licked, then gagged so loudly it echoed. She rolled onto her side, eyes wide, tongue hanging out, like she’d tasted the apocalypse. “Disgust!” she croaked, as if poisoned by carbohydrates.

Kitka, our calico chaos engine, ignored the drama. She batted the soggy lump across the kitchen, declaring it “the biscuit puck.” She skated, flipped, nearly took down the chair. “Olympics!” she shouted, diving under the fridge.

And me? I am Gryzka, voice of reason, philosopher of fluff. I sat on the counter, observing with my usual sarcastic tone.

“Marvelous,” I said. “One stale human snack, and civilization collapses. Truly, we are a proud species.”

Spurka continued dying theatrically on the floor. Kitka reappeared with crumbs glued to her whiskers, claiming victory. Mom returned, saw the chaos, and sighed. “It was just a biscuit!”

“Just?” I scoffed. “This is history. This is legend. This is… beneath the fridge forever.”

And so it remains: one biscuit, lost to time.

One cat poisoned, one cat triumphant, and one cat—me—eternally superior.

Until dinner, when another “harmless snack” shall fall, and destiny repeats itself with glorious crumbs and catastrophic meows.

Spurka vs. Kitka: The Autumn Wrestling Championship

Ladies and gentlemen, furballs and fluff enthusiasts,

Welcome to the greatest sporting event of the season:

**The Autumn Wrestling Championship (Living Room Edition).**

Your host, commentator, and completely unbiased judge (ha!) is… me, Gryzka. 🐾

Round One: The Stare-Down

The contestants step into the arena (translation: the carpet).

Spurka: weighing in at “too much kibble,” master of the belly flop technique.

Kitka: light, fast, and annoyingly spry, with a tail that doubles as a whip.

They lock eyes. Tails twitch. Mom shouts, *“Don’t knock over the vase!”*

(The vase is already doomed.)

 Round Two: The Pounce

Kitka goes for the sneak attack! A sideways crab-walk shuffle, then—BAM!—a leap onto Spurka’s back.

Spurka responds with his signature move: the **dramatic flop of doom.**

Unfortunately, the flop lands half on Kitka, half on the TV remote. Channels change rapidly. The humans panic. The cats continue.

Round Three: The Furniture Hazard

Spurka chases Kitka around the couch. Kitka counters with a climb up the curtain. The curtain, being loyal only to gravity, rips. Points deducted? No. Style points awarded? Absolutely.

I remain poised on the armchair, cleaning my paw. I am the referee. I am also the winner.

 Round Four: The Chaos Crescendo

Spurka rolls Kitka into the trashcan. Kitka emerges wearing a tissue like a cape. The crowd (aka me) gasps. A superhero has entered the arena!

Spurka tries to counter, but he’s distracted by the sudden appearance of a crinkly plastic bag. He attacks the bag instead. Kitka takes the opportunity to declare victory with a dramatic butt wiggle and a triumphant meow.

Post-Match Analysis

* Vase: destroyed.

* Curtain: destroyed.

* Remote: possibly possessed.

* Human nerves: shattered.

* Winner: officially Kitka… unofficially ME, because I sat majestically, avoided chaos, and looked fabulous the entire time.

Closing Thoughts

The Autumn Wrestling Championship will return next year, assuming there’s still furniture left to climb. Until then, I’ll continue training by practicing power naps and perfecting my death stare.

Yours in majestic impartiality,

Gryzka, Referee Extraordinaire

The Day the Heater Didn’t Work

 It was October 2nd.

The sky was a soggy dishcloth. The wind howled like a dog who just realized the cat lives here permanently. And inside?
17 degrees Celsius.

I don’t mean cozy 17. I mean “Why are my toe beans going numb?” 17.

And the heater? Silent. Cold. An ornamental radiator.

At first, I assumed the human was just testing my resilience. A sort of feline Hunger Games, but colder and with less Jennifer Lawrence.

But then she started wearing socks. In bed.
This was an emergency.

---

I tried polite tactics.
Step one: stare pointedly at the radiator.
Step two: make loud, exaggerated shivering sounds.
(She thought I was choking and offered kibble. Classic miscommunication.)

Next, I climbed onto her lap while she worked, attempting to siphon body heat like an elegant, furry parasite. But she moved. She moved. Said something about deadlines and spine alignment.

So I escalated.

---

Enter: the Wi-Fi Router.

It was warm. It hummed. It glowed slightly.
It was my new home.

I climbed on top and settled with all the dignity of a royal cat on a medieval throne.
And there I sat. Tail curled neatly. Face full of judgment.

The human noticed.

“Gryzka, get off the router!”

I did not.

Instead, I arched one eyebrow (inner eyebrow, invisible but deeply expressive) and pressed a single paw down harder. The Wi-Fi flickered. So did her will to live.

“You’re going to break it!”

I blinked slowly.

“Fine,” she muttered, and got up to check the heater.

Five minutes later…
glorious warmth.

The heater gurgled back to life with a wheeze and a sigh, as if it, too, had been personally offended by October. The radiators began to creak. The air warmed. Civilization returned.

I stayed on the router for two more hours anyway.
Just to make my point.

---

Conclusion:
When peaceful negotiation fails, sit on the tech.
The router is mightier than the passive-aggressive meow.

Power to the paws.

Warmly (finally),
Gryzka 🐾🔥💻