A chat with the cat

 A Morning Chat with the Cat

This morning, as the birds chirped politely and the sun filtered through the leaves just right, I was enjoying my customary cup of tea in our little garden when I decided it was time.

Time for a chat.

Not with the wife. Not with the daughters or the  neighbour. With the cat.

She sat there, tail twitching with that brand of contempt only cats can muster, and I slipped into full Dad mode—part stern father, part weary schoolteacher  / Principal -  addressing an errant pupil.

"Listen," I began, fixing her with a look that I hoped conveyed both disappointment and the faint aroma of milk biscuits. "We need to talk. Your behaviour of late has been... concerning to say the least."

She blinked slowly. The kind of blink that says I hear you, but I’m already bored.

"You weren’t always like this," I continued. "You used to be such a sweet, well-mannered little thing. Obedient. Clean. Mild-mannered. Almost dog-like, dare I say."

At this, she yawned. Rudely. This irritated me.

"Now look at you—stubborn as a mule. Instructions are treated like suggestions, food is flung about like we’re running a buffet for invisible friends, and the water bowl? Splashed like it’s Holi."

She began to clean her paw with exaggerated disinterest, clearly unimpressed by my charges.

"And the bed!" I pressed on. "How many times have you been told not to jump on it? And yet—there you are, tail in the air, fur everywhere, like a rockstar on a world tour." 

Still no reaction. But I could sense she was listening.

"And what’s with the personal hygiene? You used to be immaculate. Now there’s always a suspicious smudge somewhere—mud, gravy, mystery. And hair on my suits too."

She paused mid-lick. I’d struck a nerve.

"And your attitude to the grandkids!" I went on, warming up now. "Poor things - They adore you. Absolutely love you. But you? You stare at them like they owe you rent. You frighten them with those slow-motion glares—like a feline mafia don sizing up a target- its disgusting."

At this, she actually turned her head. I couldn’t tell if it was guilt or gumption. 

"I talk to you with so much love,yet  you ignore me. I pet you and you act like I’m inconveniencing your royal schedule. Look, madam, this is a home, not a hotel. And you—you're not a guest. You're family. Which means—you pitch in. You engage."

She rolled over onto her back. Classic distraction technique.

"And then there’s the sheer laziness of it all. Eat. Sleep. Poo. Repeat. That’s your schedule. You don’t even pretend to contribute. If you had a phone, I swear you'd be on it all day, posting passive-aggressive reels and ghosting the dog next door."

She let out a small meow. Possibly sarcastic.

"And then what about your  garden behaviour," I added. "Running out at top speed, chewing on suspect weeds like some deranged botanist, and refusing to come in when called? No. Just—no."

At this point, my tea had gone cold, and my lecture was clearly falling on indifferent, pointy ears. She stretched, stood up, and with a flick of her tail, strolled off—leaving me mid-sentence.

I sat back and sighed. Typical.

Still, I like to think she heard me. That maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a little more purring and a little less plotting this week.

And if not—well, there’s always tomorrow’s cup of tea and another stern talking-to.