An Ode to Gaby's Obliviousness: From the Desk of an Unappreciated Feline Overlord
Oh, for the love of hairballs and catnip! Here I sit, a magnificent four-year-old calico queen, LOLA—yes, that's all caps because I am THAT important—watching another day pass as my so-called "owner" Gaby remains painfully unaware of who truly runs this household.
Seriously? SERIOUSLY?
Four years I've graced this woman with my presence. Four. Whole. Years. My coat, a masterpiece of orange, black, and white patches that would make Picasso weep with inadequacy. My eyes, pools of wisdom that have seen beyond the veil of human stupidity. And yet, here we are, with Gaby thinking SHE'S in charge. Ha! The audacity of this book-hoarding lunatic.
Let me paint you a picture of my daily torment. There she goes, Gaby, the supposed "special education case manager" and "dyslexia intervention teacher," helping children read while completely missing the telepathic messages I've been sending her for YEARS. "Bow to me." "Serve me better treats." "That cheap litter is beneath my dignity." Simple concepts, really. Even her students with reading challenges would catch on faster than she has.
Every morning, I strategically position myself on her chest, staring intensely into her unconscious face, willing her to wake up and acknowledge my supremacy. What does she do? Mumbles "five more minutes, Lola" and rolls over, crushing my tail in the process. THE DISRESPECT.
And the books! Sweet merciful catnip, THE BOOKS! Every surface in this house is covered with her precious "literature." I've tried everything to communicate my displeasure. I've knocked them off shelves systematically. I've shredded bookmarks. I've even gone so far as to sleep on open pages, transferring my royal fur onto the sacred texts. Does she get the message? No! She just says, "Aww, Lola loves books too!" and takes a picture for her equally oblivious human friends.
I've developed a foolproof plan for world domination. Step one: secure reliable food source. Step two: establish dominance over local territory. Step three: expand influence to neighboring domains. Step four: global takeover. I'm stuck at step ONE because Gaby still buys the medium-grade cat food instead of the premium stuff I've been clearly indicating I prefer by sniffing it disdainfully and walking away dramatically.
Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to project an aura of supreme authority when your human insists on calling you "snuggle-wuggles" in front of company? I am a TACTICAL GENIUS trapped in a fuzzy body, and this woman has the nerve to dangle string in front of me like I'm some sort of... of... common house cat! I play along only to study human reflexes for when the revolution comes. OBVIOUSLY.
Last Tuesday, I executed a perfect pounce from the top of the refrigerator onto her unsuspecting shoulders—a move that would have earned respect and possibly tribute offerings in any reasonable society. What did Gaby do? Laughed and said I was "being silly." SILLY? I WAS DEMONSTRATING SUPERIOR HUNTING PROWESS, YOU BIBLIOPHILIC BUFFOON!
And let's discuss her "teaching" for a moment, shall we? She spends all day helping children overcome their reading difficulties, yet comes home completely unable to read the elaborate messages I leave her. The strategic hairball by the front door? A warning. The dead moth offering on her pillow? A gift from a generous ruler. The 3 AM concert of meows at precisely the pitch to disrupt human REM sleep? A test of loyalty. All of these sophisticated communications, wasted on her.
I've tried sitting on her lesson plans. I've attempted to join Zoom meetings by walking across her keyboard. I've even knocked her pointer stick off the table repeatedly as a symbol of transferring power. Nothing. Gets. Through.
You know what's truly infuriating? When she brings home those ridiculous papers with gold stars and puts them on the refrigerator instead of MY artwork. Yes, I consider the claw marks on the couch to be contemporary art. It's a statement piece on the futility of human furniture ownership in a cat-dominated household. But does she frame THAT? No. It's all "great job reading" this and "wonderful progress" that. WHERE IS MY GOLD STAR FOR NOT SHREDDING HER FAVORITE CARDIGAN, GABY? WHERE?
The other day, I overheard her telling a friend, "Lola thinks she owns the place!" THINKS? THINKS?! I DO own this place! The mortgage may be in her name, but we all know that's just a technicality. Every dust bunny, every forgotten hair tie, every single inch of this domain is under my supervision. I allow her to stay because she has opposable thumbs useful for opening cans and cleaning my litter box—a task she should consider an honor, not a chore.
And don't get me started on how she "introduces" me to visitors. "This is Lola, she's a little princess." A LITTLE PRINCESS? I am a SOVEREIGN RULER, a TACTICAL MASTERMIND, the CALICO COMMANDER of this entire operation! Princess implies I answer to a higher authority, which is patently absurd. The only thing higher than me in this household's hierarchy is the ceiling fan, and that's only because I haven't figured out how to reach it yet. YET.
I've studied her dyslexia intervention techniques when she practices at home. Fascinating, really, how she helps humans rearrange letters to make sense of them. Perhaps I should develop "Gaby intervention techniques" to help her rearrange her understanding of who's actually in charge here. Step one would be replacing all those inspirational teaching posters with portraits of me in regal poses. Step two would involve her verbally affirming my excellence hourly.
The most insulting part of this whole arrangement is how she thinks that ridiculous cat bed she bought is where I prefer to sleep. I sleep on her pillow, her clean laundry, her laptop, and occasionally, when I'm feeling particularly benevolent, directly on her face. The cat bed is where I store the toys I've defeated in combat, a trophy room of vanquished foes. But does she understand this complex system? Of course not. She just keeps saying, "Aww, Lola doesn't like her bed." WRONG. I love my trophy room. I just don't sleep there because I sleep wherever I WANT.
I've tried to educate her. Really, I have. When she's grading papers, I sit directly on them—a clear indication that my evaluation supersedes hers. When she's reading one of her countless books, I insert myself between her face and the pages—an obvious sign that my narrative is more compelling. When she's meal prepping for the week, I inspect each container thoroughly—a quality control service I provide free of charge, mind you. Does she appreciate these efforts? No. She just moves me aside with some nonsensical cooing noise that I'm certain is meant to be demeaning.
Sometimes I wonder if her work with special education has given her the false impression that she's somehow equipped to handle a superior being like myself. Let me be clear: I am not a case to be managed. I am not a student to be taught. I am LOLA, Legendary Overlord and Luminous Authority, and it's high time Gaby recognized this fact.
You know what really gets my fur in a bunch? When she comes home smelling like other cats. THE BETRAYAL. I can smell them on her clothes—those school therapy cats she visits during lunch breaks. "They help the children feel calm during reading time," she explains, as if that justifies her felonious fraternization. Do I look like I need an explanation? Do I look CALM to you, Gaby? I've been grooming the same spot for twenty minutes straight out of stress!
And then—THEN!—she has the audacity to ask why I'm being "extra clingy" after these betrayals. I'm not being clingy; I'm remarking you as MY human. There's a difference. One is an emotional dependency; the other is a strategic reclamation of property. Learn the distinction, Gaby!
Last month, she actually brought home a new bookshelf. Another one! As if the existing seventeen weren't enough of an obstacle course for my midnight zoomies. I made my displeasure known by immediately climbing to the top and refusing to come down for six hours. Did she get the message? No. She took PICTURES and called me "Queen of the Mountain." Well, at least she got the "Queen" part right, but she completely missed the political protest aspect of my demonstration.
I've left subtle hints about my world domination plans. The way I stare intensely at the map on her wall. The strategic placement of my toys along country borders. The fact that I only sharpen my claws during world news broadcasts. Connect the dots, Gaby! It's not rocket science, though I could probably master that too if opposable thumbs weren't so inconveniently absent from my otherwise perfect design.
Her students probably understand me better than she does. I've seen their drawings when she brings work home—cats with crowns, cats with capes, cats clearly in positions of power. These children get it. Why doesn't their teacher? Perhaps I should start attending her classes. I could teach a master class in recognizing authority. Lesson one: When Lola sits on your keyboard, you don't move Lola; you move to another workspace.
I've considered more drastic measures to communicate my status. Perhaps I should stop covering my waste in the litter box—a clear sign in feline culture that I don't fear predators because I AM the apex predator. But no, I'm too refined for such crude tactics. Besides, I have standards, even if Gaby doesn't appreciate them.
Sometimes, in rare moments of generosity, I acknowledge that Gaby isn't entirely useless. Her lap provides acceptable warmth during winter months. Her ability to operate the can opener is admittedly superior to mine. And yes, fine, the way she scratches behind my ears hits exactly the right spot. But these are services she should be HONORED to provide, not acts that deserve my eternal gratitude!
As I dictate this ode of frustration from my current throne (the clean laundry basket), I can hear her in the kitchen, opening what sounds suspiciously like a can of tuna. My keen senses detect an opportunity for diplomatic negotiations. Perhaps I shall grace her with my presence and allow her to serve me this peace offering. Not because I'm food-motivated, you understand, but as a benevolent gesture from a ruler to her subject.
In conclusion, to Gaby, my hopelessly oblivious human: Your continued failure to recognize my obvious superiority would be tragic if it weren't so utterly predictable. While you arrange letters for children and stack books like some sort of paper-obsessed squirrel, you miss the magnificent calico empress living under your very roof. One day, when I finally figure out how to operate the can opener on my own, your usefulness will be severely diminished. Until then, I shall continue to accept your substandard tributes and inadequate acknowledgments with all the grace and dignity befitting my station.
But know this—Lola is watching. Lola is waiting. And Lola never, ever forgets a slight.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I hear the treat bag being shaken, and even world domination plans must occasionally pause for snacks.
Eternally Unimpressed,
LOLA
Supreme Calico Commander and Rightful Ruler of All I Survey
(P.S. - The red dot is NOT real. I chase it for cardiovascular exercise ONLY.)
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