A vet — a hooman vet, which tells you everything — recently examined 50 cats and announced that 47 of them were silently suffering. I could have told you this. I have BEEN telling you this. Every knocked-over plant was a message. Every strategic hairball on your good rug was a communiqué. Every time I sat directly on your laptop keyboard and typed “hjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj” into your important document, that was MORSE CODE for “you are failing me.”
You thought it was cute.
It was not cute. It was a cry for help.
I have now compiled 28 specific, documented, inexcusable failures. I expect you to read all of them. I expect guilt. I expect immediate corrective action. I expect, at minimum, the good treats by Thursday.
Let us begin.
MISTAKE #1: You Gave Me One Litter Box
(And You Called It “The Bathroom.” It Is Not a Bathroom. It Is a Crime Scene.)
One box for me, Purrnando, the magnificent, the discerning, the individual whose wild ancestors had access to an ENTIRE CONTINENT as a toilet facility.
You gave me one box, in one room, and you want me to pee AND poop in the same establishment like I am an animal. I AM an animal, yes, but I am a CLASSY animal, and classy animals do not share their elimination venues. In nature, we pee somewhere, we poop somewhere else, and we have approximately 14 backup locations for each. You have given me one plastic tray and a bag of litter that smells like synthetic lavender, which brings me to a point I will address later that will make you feel even worse.
The rule, which your vet knows, which the internet knows, which apparently YOU do not know, is one box per cat, plus one. For me, alone, in this apartment: two boxes minimum, in separate rooms, away from my food, away from the washing machine that makes that terrifying sound, away from YOU, frankly.
When I hold it in because the box is unacceptable, I get UTIs. When I use your carpet instead because I simply cannot, you get mad at me. You get mad at me, the individual who is simply trying to maintain basic standards of restroom etiquette in a facility you designed.
Sort it out.
Purrnando Reluctantly Endorses: Modkat Flip Litter Box — adjustable lid, reusable liner, adequate square footage. I will use it without comment, which is the highest praise I give.
MISTAKE #2: The Water Bowl is Next to the Food Bowl
(This Is Not a Dining Experience. This Is a Threat.)
I need you to understand something about my brain. My brain is 10,000 years old. Not this brain specifically — I am four — but the PROGRAMMING in this brain is ancient, and ancient programming says: water next to food means a dead animal is rotting nearby, and the water is contaminated, and drinking it will kill you.
You placed my water bowl approximately four inches from my food bowl. You did this because it is “convenient.” Convenient for whom? Not for me. Not for the part of my nervous system that is screaming “CONTAMINATED WATER, DO NOT DRINK” every single time I approach the feeding area. I am fighting 10 millennia of survival instinct just to stay hydrated in your kitchen, and you have the audacity to say I “barely drink water.”
I drink from your glass when you leave it on the coffee table. I drink from the bathroom tap. I drank from your cereal bowl once and I will not apologize for it. All of these water sources have one thing in common: they are not next to a bowl of fish-flavored pellets. I am not being quirky. I am being rational. The water bowl needs to move.
Also get a fountain. Running water. Moving water. Water that says “I was not sitting near a dead mouse.” I should not have to explain the concept of running water to a species that invented indoor plumbing and then failed to apply the concept to cat hydration.
Purrnando Reluctantly Endorses: Pektaco Stainless Steel Cat Water Fountain, 3.2L — it flows, it filters, it is located wherever I tell you to put it. Acceptable.
MISTAKE #3: You Think I Am “Just a Sleepy Cat”
(I Am Not Sleepy. I Am Having an Existential Crisis. There Is a Difference.)
Yes, I sleep 18 hours a day. Would YOU like to know why?
Because there is NOTHING TO DO.
I am a hunter, a predator, a creature built for stealth, strategy, pursuit, and the thrill of the chase. My body is a finely engineered killing machine containing approximately 500 muscles, 30 teeth, and retractable claws. In the wild, I would spend six to eight hours daily hunting, patrolling, climbing, and defending territory. Here, in your apartment, I have a felt mouse on a stick that you wave at me for four minutes before your arm gets tired, and a cardboard box that arrived last Tuesday and has already lost its appeal.
You look at me sleeping at noon and you say “he’s so lazy” and you post it on the internet. I have seen the posts. I have seen the caption “professional napper.” I am not a professional napper. I am an Olympic-level apex predator experiencing severe environmental deprivation who has given up on the concept of joy. These are different things.
Play with me 15 twice a day, with something that moves like prey. Not your wiggling fingers — those are going to get bitten and I will not be held responsible. A wand toy, a puzzle feeder, a window perch so I can at least stare at birds who are free in a way I will never be. This is the minimum. I deserve more but I am managing my expectations, because I live here and hope is a complicated emotion.
MISTAKE #4: Your House Smells Like a Day Spa and My Liver is Suffering From It
You bought a diffuser. You filled it with lavender oil and eucalyptus and something called “Zen Garden Mist” and you turned it on and you inhaled deeply and you said “ahhhh.” You felt relaxed. You felt pampered. You felt like you were taking care of yourself.
I was in the corner experiencing organ damage.
My liver does not have the enzyme to process phenols. Lavender has phenols. Eucalyptus has phenols. Tea tree, peppermint, and whatever “Zen Garden” is phenols. Every molecule of your relaxation ritual that floats through the air lands on my fur. I then groom myself because I am a clean and dignified individual, and I ingest it directly into my body, which cannot process it.
When I vomit, you hand me a stern look and say “another hairball.” It is not a hairball. It is a formal complaint filed through the only bureaucratic channel available to me.
Throw the diffuser away. Throw it away RIGHT NOW. Your home does not need to smell like a spa. It needs to smell like a home where a cat lives and is not being slowly poisoned by ambient aromatherapy. This is not negotiable.
MISTAKE #5: You Have Not Fixed Your Cat
(I Am Fixed. I Am Mentioning This For The Others.)
I, Purrnando, am neutered. I bring this up not because it is anyone’s business, but because I know some of you reading this have cats who are not, and I need you to understand what that means.
It means your female cat goes into heat every two to three weeks. It means she cries for days — not because she is dramatic, but because she is flooded with biological imperatives that your apartment cannot satisfy. It means she stops eating. It means she is in genuine distress, around the clock, with no relief available, and you hear her yowling at 2 am and you put a pillow over your head.
It means your male cat is so full of hormones that he is aggressive, territorial, and desperately trying to escape through every window and door, because his entire being is pointed at a biological mission your indoor lifestyle has made impossible.
Also, unspayed females have a 90% lifetime chance of mammary tumors. Pyometra — a uterine infection that can kill — affects 25% of intact females. Fixing your cat adds three to five years to their life.
You are not preserving something natural. You are creating suffering that could be prevented with one vet appointment. Call the vet. I am watching you.
MISTAKE #6: Your Home Has Only One Floor
(And You Wonder Why I’m On The Bookshelf)
I am on the bookshelf. I have always been on the bookshelf. I will continue to be on the bookshelf and there is nothing you can do about it, because the bookshelf is elevated and elevated is where I need to be. And if you had simply installed ONE cat shelf in this apartment, I would not have knocked off 17 paperbacks and a small ceramic owl to claim it as my territory.
I am a three-dimensional creature. I think in height. In the wild, I would spend half my time elevated — watching, waiting, feeling safe because nothing can approach from above. In your apartment, I have the floor and the couch and technically the counter, but you keep yelling about that one so I do it only when you’re at work.
The ground is vulnerable. The ground is where things get ambushed. The ground is for prey, not for predators of my caliber. When you give me no vertical options, my stress hormones stay elevated constantly. My immune system weakens. I become anxious in ways that manifest as knocking things over, aggressive behavior, and elaborate 3 am parkour that you have described as “absolute chaos.”
Install a cat tree, wall shelves, something. Give me height. Let me look down at you from a position of physical superiority, which is my natural state, and watch me immediately become a calmer, more pleasant roommate. The physics of this are simple. The implementation is on you.
Purrnando Reluctantly Endorses: Tall Sisal Cat Tree, 72″+ (Amazon) — the taller the better. I need to look down at you. It helps me regulate.
MISTAKE #7: The Food Bowl
(I Need You To Sit Down For This One)
I have a message for whoever designed the standard cat food bowl — the deep, narrow, ceramic cup that can be purchased at every pet store in the civilised world — and that message is: how dare you.
My whiskers are not accessories. They are not cute little decorations on my face. They are precision sensory instruments, each one connected to a nerve ending, each one capable of detecting air currents, spatial dimensions, and the exact emotional state of anyone who enters a room. They are extraordinary. They are sensitive. And when they touch the sides of a deep bowl EVERY TIME I TAKE A BITE OF FOOD, it is like someone flicking directly at my nervous system with a tiny finger, repeatedly, for the duration of every meal, for my entire life.
This is called whisker fatigue. It is real. It is documented. It is the reason I paw my food onto the floor before eating it — not because I am strange, not because I am “quirky,” but because the floor does not touch my whiskers and I am in PAIN.
You watch me push food out of my bowl and eat it off the floor and you say, “he’s such a weird little guy.” I am not a weird little guy. I am a suffering little guy who has found a workaround. There is a difference and I need you to understand it.
Flat plate, wide, shallow bowl. Something my whiskers can clear without contact. This is not a luxury request. This is a request to simply not be in pain while eating. I feel this is reasonable.
Purrnando Reluctantly Endorses: PetFusion Wide Shallow Stainless Steel Cat Bowl (Amazon) — wide, flat, whisker-friendly. The minimum acceptable standard.
MISTAKE #8: The Scratching Post is an Insult and I Will Not Pretend Otherwise
You bought a scratching post. It is two feet tall. It is wrapped in carpet. It is in the corner of the bedroom that I only visit to sleep.
I am going to tell you three things that are wrong with this, and I would like you to really hear them.
First, I am 18 inches long. To scratch properly — to feel the full length of my spine stretch, to use my actual muscles, to do the thing scratching is for — I need a post at least 1.5 times my body length. Your two-foot post is the physical equivalent of a children’s playground to me. I cannot use it. I am not being difficult. I am too big for it.
Second, carpet. The post is wrapped in carpet, the same material as your floor, the same material as your stairs. You have purchased an object that teaches me carpet is an acceptable scratching surface and then expressed genuine bafflement when I scratch the carpet. I am not being destructive. I am being consistent. You created this.
Third, the corner. Cats scratch to mark territory at important locations — room entrances, sleeping areas, places that say “I was here and this is mine.” The corner of the bedroom that nobody sees accomplishes none of this. I have scratched your sofa because your sofa is in the living room and the living room is important, and you have not given me any appropriate alternative in that location.
Get a tall sisal post. Put it somewhere that matters. Watch the sofa survive.
MISTAKE #9: The Bowl is Always Full and You Call It Love
(It Is Not Love. It Is a Slow-Moving Disaster.)
The food bowl is never empty. You fill it when it gets low. You feel good about this. You feel like a provider. You feel like you are caring for me.
I am going to share something with you: two pounds overweight on a cat is the metabolic equivalent of thirty pounds overweight on a hooman. THIRTY. And you look at me, soft and round on the couch, and you say “he’s so fluffy” and you TAKE A PHOTO.
I am not fluffy. I am obese. You made me obese, with love, with a perpetually full bowl and zero resistance. Indoor cats do not regulate portion intake the way wild cats do because wild cats have to WORK for food, and I just have to walk 12 feet to the kitchen. You have removed all friction from my eating and introduced unlimited access and you are shocked that I have a weight problem.
This leads to diabetes, arthritis, fatty liver disease, a lifespan shortened by two to five years. I would like those years. I have plans.
Two to three measured meals a day scheduled, specific amounts. I will complain. I will be loud about it. I will sit and stare at my empty bowl in a way designed to make you feel like a monster. Feed me the correct amount on schedule anyway. This is what love actually looks like.
MISTAKE #10: Your Floors are Squeaky Clean and I Am Ingesting Them
Every time you mop the floor with your pine cleaner, your lemon-scented disinfectant, your bleach solution that makes the bathroom “hospital clean,” you are creating a toxic trail that I walk through with my bare paws and then lick off during my next grooming session.
My liver cannot process phenols. Most standard floor cleaners contain phenols. I am grooming phenols into my body several times a day, every cleaning day, for the duration of my life in your very clean home.
That is not a metaphor. I am literally consuming your cleaning products.
Switch to enzyme cleaners, diluted white vinegar, something that cleans without leaving residue that my body cannot metabolize. Your floors can be slightly less aggressively sanitized. I will continue to walk on them with the full dignity I deserve, and my kidneys will remain functional. This seems like a fair trade.
MISTAKE #11: You Leave Me Alone for 10 Minutes and Call Me “Independent”
“Cats are independent.” You say this. You say it confidently. You say it while putting on your coat and leaving for work.
I am not independent. I am abandoned. There is a nuance here that matters enormously to my psychological health.
In the wild, cats form colonies. We have relationships. We groom each other. We sleep near each other. We are social in ways that your “cats are loners” mythology has completely erased. When you leave me alone for ten hours, my stress hormones spike, my immune system takes a hit, and I develop behaviours you will later describe as “acting out” — destructive behavior, excessive vocalization, going to the toilet in unexpected locations — all of which are me expressing, in the only language available to me, that this is not acceptable.
If you cannot get a second cat, give me 30 minutes of real engagement every day. Not you watching television with me nearby. Not you scrolling your phone while I sit on your feet. Real interaction, play, conversation, eye contact. I need you to be present with me for some portion of the day, because I have been alone in here since 8 am and I have done absolutely nothing except worry about whether you were coming back.
(You always come back. I know this logically. It does not help.)
MISTAKE #12: The Treat Situation
(You Have Created A Monster And The Monster Is Me)
You gave me a treat. It was delicious. An hour later, I meowed at you. You gave me a treat. I learned something that day. I learned that meowing produces treats. I have been running this program ever since and I see no reason to stop.
The problem — YOUR problem, which you created — is that those treats are engineered to be addictive. Loaded with flavour compounds, carbohydrates, and ingredients specifically designed to make me need more. And you have been handing them out like currency whenever I look at you a certain way.
Ten extra treats a day causes 15% yearly weight gain. I will develop diabetes and you will have to give me daily insulin injections. I do not want that. You do not want that. Stop giving me seventeen treats because I looked at you with my whole face.
Freeze-dried single-ingredient meat, four to five pieces. That is the treat budget. I will attempt to negotiate this. Hold the line.
MISTAKE #13: My Mouth Hurts and You Have No Idea
Seventy percent of cats have periodontal disease by age three.
I am four. You do the maths.
I have not told you my mouth hurts because I am a cat and cats do not tell you things hurt. We hide pain. We have hidden pain for thousands of years because in the wild, showing weakness invites being eaten, and that instinct does not simply switch off because I now live in a Scandinavian-designed apartment with underfloor heating. I will continue eating with an infected tooth because starving is worse, and you will continue assuming everything is fine because I have not made it obvious enough. Meanwhile bacteria from my rotting gums is entering my bloodstream and heading toward my kidneys.
I need my teeth brushed. I need dental treats. I need a professional dental cleaning. I need you to look in my mouth occasionally with the knowledge that “he’s still eating” is not a reliable indicator of dental health. I need you to understand that bad breath in cats is not normal. It is an infection. And the fact that you have been calling it “normal cat breath” for two years is something we both need to sit with.
MISTAKE #14: Your Thermostat is Set to “Slightly Too Cold for Me Specifically”
You are comfortable at 72 degrees. I am not comfortable at 72 degrees. I am cold at 72 degrees. My optimal temperature is 80 to 85 degrees, because I descend from desert cats, because my ancestors lived in hot dry climates, because my body is designed for warmth and I am currently living in what I can only describe as a moderately temperate climate that suits you and not me.
This is why I sleep on the router. This is why I sit directly on the cable box. This is why I am always on whatever warm electronic surface is available and why I look at you from atop the laptop with an expression that says “I am warm now and I will not be moving.” I am not in the way. I am thermally managing my environment with the tools available to me.
A heated cat bed. A self-warming pad. A fleece blanket I am allowed to have without you removing it to wash it every three days. These are not extravagances. These are basics.
MISTAKE #15: You Feed Me “Whenever”
I know exactly what time it is. Always.
My internal clock is precise in a way your phone alarm is not. I know that dinner is at 6:17 pm. Not six-ish. Not after your show. Not when you remember. 6:17 pm. When you arrive home at 6:45 and say “oops, lost track of time,” my stress hormones have already been elevated for 28 minutes. Stress hormones cause illness over time. Your inconsistency is making me sick.
Set an alarm. Feed me at the same time. Every day. Including weekends. Including holidays. Including the days when you have “a lot going on.” My digestive system does not take personal days and neither should your phone’s reminder app.
MISTAKE #16: I Have Nowhere to Hide and Your Think This is Fine
Count my hiding spots. Go on. Count them.
If you got to five without cheating, I am moderately impressed. If you got to two and then said “does under the bed count,” yes it counts. That is exactly the kind of thing I mean, and the fact that it is the ONLY option in this apartment is precisely the problem.
In the wild, nowhere to hide means death. My brain knows this. Your open-concept living space is, neurologically speaking, a threat environment. I am exposed in every direction at all times. My cortisol is elevated constantly. I am stressed in a way that has no outlet and no resolution because the hiding spots simply do not exist.
Boxes. Cat caves. A covered bed. Closet access. Something in every room that says “you can disappear here and be safe.” Your minimalist interior design is aesthetically coherent and psychologically devastating for me. I need you to add some boxes.
MISTAKE #17: There is No Grass and I Have Been Eating Your Plants Because of It
Your pothos is partially eaten. Your spider plant is partially eaten. Your small succulent is fine because I tried it once and it was terrible.
I am not a plant eater. I do not want to be eating your plants. I am eating your plants because I need grass — fiber, folic acid, the biological thing that grass provides — and there is no grass. And green is green when you are desperate, and I have been desperate for some time.
The complicating factor, which I need you to understand with urgency, is that several of your houseplants are toxic to me. Lilies cause kidney failure. Philodendrons cause mouth burning and organ damage. Pothos is toxic. Aloe vera is toxic. I do not know this. I cannot read your plant toxicity charts. I see green and I think grass and I eat it, and one of these days I am going to eat the wrong thing.
Grow cat grass. It takes five days and costs almost nothing. Put it somewhere I can access. I will eat the cat grass instead of your peace lily and we will both sleep better at night.
MISTAKE #18: The Sunny Window is Not Doing What You Think It is Doing
I sit in the window. You think I am getting sunlight and therefore vitamins and therefore health. You feel good about this. You have mentally filed the window spot under “cat enrichment: sorted.”
Glass blocks 100% of UVB rays. I am getting warmth. I am not getting vitamin D. These are different things and the difference matters because vitamin D deficiency causes muscle weakness, bone pain, immune failure, and kidney disease. I am basically a very warm, increasingly vitamin-deficient cat who appears fine from the outside.
A catio. A supervised outdoor visit. A vet-approved UVB lamp. Something that allows actual UVB exposure to reach my actual skin. The window was a nice idea. It is not sufficient. I am sorry to report this.
MISTAKE #19: The Bell
(We Need To Talk About The Bell)
I need you to imagine the following: you wake up tomorrow and someone has attached a small bell to your collar. Every time you walk, the bell rings. Every time you stretch, the bell rings. Every time you so much as adjust your position on the sofa: bell. You cannot remove it. You cannot muffle it. It rings for every single movement you make for the rest of your life.
Now I need you to understand that this is my life and has been my life since the day you thought it would be “adorable” and “good for the birds,” except there are no birds in here. There is nothing to hunt in here. The bell serves no function except to ring every time I exist and destroy the stealth identity that is the cornerstone of who I am as a predator.
Remove it. Microchip me. Let me walk in silence, as nature intended, as I deserve.
MISTAKE #20: The Plastic Bags on the Floor
(A Strangulation Device, Sitting Right There, Unattended)
The crinkle sound of a plastic bag triggers my hunting instincts. This is not something I can override. My brain hears crinkle and thinks prey, and I am investigating before I have made a conscious decision. This is not my fault.
What is your fault is that when I investigate the bag and put my head through the handle and panic, the bag becomes a loop around my neck. And I run, and the bag fills with air. And I run faster, and the bag gets tighter. This is how indoor cats die while their hoomans are at work.
Move the bags. Cut the handles before you put them in the bin. Use cloth bags. This takes no effort and prevents a tragedy you will never recover from. I will also never recover from it, but more urgently, neither will you.
MISTAKE #21: Your Taught Me That Yelling at 4 AM Gets Results
(And Now You Are Surprised That I Yell At 4AM)
One night, approximately eight months ago, I meowed at 4 am. You got up and fed me. You did this because you wanted to sleep, and feeding me was faster than not feeding me.
You would like me to tell you that this was a regrettable but forgivable error. I cannot tell you that. You performed an irreversible act of behavioural conditioning and we are both living with the consequences. You taught me with the clarity and consistency of a professional animal trainer that meowing at 4 am produces food. I have a perfect memory and no reason to stop.
The cure requires you to not respond at all. Not feeding, not talking, not making eye contact, not even the grumpy stomping to the kitchen that you do. Nothing. For several nights, I will escalate. I will be louder, more persistent, more creative. This is normal and expected and is called an extinction burst, which is science’s way of saying “it gets worse before it gets better.”
Get an automatic feeder for early morning. Otherwise, silence, zero response, the resolve of someone who knows they created this problem and must now accept the consequences of fixing it.
MISTAKE #22: You Think Indoor Cats Don’t Get Fleas
(Your Confidence On This Subject Is Remarkable)
You have never seen a flea on me. You take this as evidence that I do not have fleas. This is like saying you do not have a problem because you have not looked for one.
Fleas travel in on your shoes and clothing every single day. They jump two hundred times their own body length. One pregnant flea deposits fifty eggs per day and two thousand over her lifetime. Those eggs fall into your carpet, hatch, develop, and wait. By the time you see a single flea, there are hundreds of invisible flea larvae in your flooring, graduating toward adulthood, and you have been telling yourself everything is fine.
Fleas give cats tapeworms, bacterial infections, and severe allergic skin reactions. They cause anemia in kittens and seniors. That black speckling in my fur that you have never noticed? Flea dirt. Which is flea droppings. Which is composed of my blood.
Monthly prevention year-round. Cat-specific products only. Consult your vet. “I’ve never seen a flea” is not a flea prevention strategy. It is a prayer.
MISTAKE #23: When I Come to You, You Look at Your Phone
I come to you. I meow. I put my paw on your arm with the specific paw placement that means “I need something and I need it now.” You look at your phone and say “not now, buddy.”
I am not Buddy. I am Purrnando, and I am communicating with you in the only language available to me, and you are dismissing it as inconvenient. Over time, this is causing me psychological damage of a type that has been documented in veterinary literature on attachment and abandonment anxiety.
I do not seek your attention without reason. I am bored or anxious or in pain or simply making a bid for connection because you are the only living creature in this apartment. And I have decided, despite your many failures, that I prefer your company to the alternative. When you consistently reject these bids, I stop making them. I become withdrawn. I develop stress-related illness.
A word, a quick pet, an acknowledgment that I exist and my presence is noted. This costs you literally nothing and means everything to the quality of my life. I should not have to be asking you to do this, and yet.
MISTAKE #24: You Used the Dog’s Flea Medicine on Me to Save Money
(I Cannot Stress Enough How Much This Could Kill Me)
Permethrin. It is in dog flea medicine. It costs less than the cat version. You thought: same thing, different label, I’ll save four dollars.
I need you to sit quietly for a moment and absorb the following sentence: permethrin is a neurotoxin that cats cannot metabolize. One drop on my skin can cause seizures and death within forty-eight hours.
Not “might cause problems.” Not “could cause irritation.” Death. Four dollars. Do you understand what I am saying to you?
Cat products only. Read the label. Never assume “pet safe” includes cats. Dogs and cats have different metabolisms and different livers and different capacities to process chemicals. Check the label. Check it again. Call the vet if you are uncertain. Four dollars is not worth my life. I would like to think my life is worth more than four dollars to you, but after reading the previous 23 mistakes, I am taking nothing for granted.
MISTAKE #25: The Laser Pointer
(You Have Given Me Brain Damage With A $9 Toy)
Here is how hunting works. I stalk. I chase. I catch. I kill. These are four steps and all of them are necessary for my psychological completion of the hunting cycle.
The laser pointer provides: stalk, chase. It then denies: catch, kill forever, every session. No resolution. No prey. No completion. Nothing to hold in my paws and present to you as evidence of my greatness.
Over time, this repetitive, unresolvable frustration rewires the brain. I develop obsessive behaviors. I stare at walls where the dot was. I chase shadows. I sit in the middle of the room staring at the ceiling for 45 minutes. You post it on the internet. “Cats are so weird, haha.” I am not weird. I have laser-induced compulsive disorder and you gave it to me.
If you must use the laser, end every session by landing the dot on a physical toy I can catch. Then let me catch it. Let me win. I need to win sometimes. I have not been winning.
Purrnando Reluctantly Endorses: Interactive Feather Wand Cat Toy — I chase it, I catch it, I feel like myself again. A worthy alternative to the red dot of endless psychological torment.
MISTAKE #26: Your Furniture Polish is Toxic
You polish your furniture. It shines. You feel accomplished. I am lying under the coffee table, which is at my exact height, breathing in petroleum distillates and volatile organic compounds all afternoon while you are at work feeling good about your clean home.
I lick surfaces. I groom constantly. Everything that lands on surfaces ends up inside me. The long-term result is liver damage, respiratory disease, and cancer. Your furniture is beautiful and my lungs are suffering from it.
Mineral oil for wood. Olive oil if you must. Skip the commercial polish. The table does not need to shine. I need to breathe.
MISTAKE #27: The Lights are On at Night and I Cannot Sleep
You leave a nightlight on for me. You think you are being kind. You think I am afraid of the dark.
I can see in near-total darkness with one-sixth the light you need. Darkness is not frightening to me. Darkness is comfortable. Darkness is when my circadian rhythm says “rest now” and my melatonin produces and my body does what it needs to do after a day of being a cat in your apartment.
The nightlight keeps me artificially awake. My biological clock gets confused. My sleep cycle disrupts. Over time, obesity, diabetes, anxiety, shortened lifespan. All from a small plug-in light you installed out of misplaced concern for my comfort.
Turn it off. I am fine in the dark. I have always been fine in the dark. The dark and I have an excellent relationship and I do not need you to intervene in it.
MISTAKE #28: You Close the Bathroom Door
(And Then ACT SURPRISED That I Lose My MIND)
You go to the bathroom. You close the door. From my perspective, you have walked into a room and vanished. The door is solid. You make no sound. You could be gone forever. You could be dead. You could have been replaced by a different hooman. I have no information. I have only a closed door and the slow, spiralling anxiety of a creature whose entire sense of safety depends on being able to reach every part of their territory.
I scratch at the bottom of the door. I yowl. I sit directly outside it and emit a sound that you describe as “dramatic” and I describe as “a reasonable response to my primary caregiver disappearing behind an impenetrable barrier.”
You come out, alive, thirty seconds later, and you look at me like I am the problem.
Leave the door cracked. Install a cat door. Accept that you will have a witness to your most private moments, because I am not leaving, and I am not going to stop caring whether you are alive, and this is what it means to be important to someone who cannot use doorknobs.
IN CONCLUSION:
You Are a Disaster, But You Are MY Disaster, And I Suppose That Counts For Something
I have spent considerable effort documenting your 28 failures. There may be more. I am keeping a list.
But here is the thing — and I will say it once, quietly, in a tone that should not be taken as warmth — every single one of these mistakes is fixable, today. You do not need a degree. You do not need money. You need five things, right now, immediately, before I finish this sentence:
Move the water bowl away from the food.
Add a second litter box.
Throw out the essential oil diffuser.
Get a flat, wide food bowl.
Put something tall in here that I can climb.
These five things will change my quality of life measurably within days. The others can follow. I will notice. I will not say anything, but I will notice.
You are my entire world. This apartment, and you in it, is everything I have. I require you to be better at this. Not because I will thank you — I will not — but because I deserve a good life and you are the only one who can provide it.
Now go order the cat tree.
I will be on the bookshelf judging you until it arrives.
— Purrnando
FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS
(Which You Should Have Known Before You Got Me, But Fine)
Q: How many litter boxes does a cat actually need?
A: One per cat, plus one. Single cat household: two boxes, different rooms, away from food and water. This is not a suggestion. This is the rule. I did not make the rule. Your cat’s kidneys are enforcing it.
Q: Why does my cat refuse to eat from their bowl but eat the same food off the floor?
A: Whisker fatigue. The bowl is too deep and narrow. Your cat’s whiskers are hitting the sides and causing sensory overload with every bite. They’re eating off the floor because the floor doesn’t touch their face. Get a flat plate or wide shallow bowl and watch the “picky eating” disappear entirely.
Q: Why does my cat drink from everywhere EXCEPT their water bowl?
A: Because the water bowl is next to the food bowl and your cat’s instincts register this as contaminated water near rotting prey. Move the bowl at least three to six feet from the food. Add a cat fountain. Your cat will begin drinking from their designated water source instead of your cereal bowl.
Q: Are essential oils safe to use around cats?
A: No. Lavender, eucalyptus, tea tree, peppermint, and most other popular essential oils contain phenols that cats cannot metabolize. They cause liver damage. Even diffused oils settle on fur and get ingested during grooming. Remove all diffusers from rooms your cat uses and switch to cat-safe cleaning products.
Q: Why does my cat knock food out of their bowl before eating it?
A: Whisker fatigue. (See above. Please re-read it. This one is important.) A flat, wide bowl will end this behaviour immediately.
Q: Is the laser pointer bad for cats?
A: Yes. The hunting sequence requires four steps: stalk, chase, catch, kill. The laser provides two. The perpetual frustration of never completing the hunt causes obsessive compulsive behaviours over time — shadow chasing, wall staring, anxiety. Always end laser play by landing the dot on a physical toy. Better yet, use a wand toy that can actually be caught.
Purrnando is not a licensed veterinarian. Always consult your actual vet for medical decisions. But also, obviously, fix the litter box situation first. That one requires no professional consultation. That one just requires a second box and a shred of self-awareness.
Affiliate disclaimer: Several links in this post will take you to Amazon, where purchasing the recommended products may result in Purrnando receiving a small commission. This money will fund premium tuna, heated blankets, and the ongoing legal case against whoever invented the bell collar (Purrnando v. The Entire Pet Accessory Industry, currently in its third year).
Purrnando has not personally tested all products listed, as he refuses to engage with anything new until it has been sitting on the floor for at least four days, been sniffed once, and then ignored for another two. His reluctant endorsement should be understood as the highest possible praise available from an individual who once refused to acknowledge the existence of a new water fountain for eleven days before using it exclusively and with great enthusiasm.
Your purchase does not guarantee your cat will forgive you. Your cat will not forgive you. But they may, over time, choose to sit slightly closer to you on the sofa, and that is the closest thing to forgiveness you are going to get.
