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.
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 🐾🔥💻
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