Listen, I don’t just love my five cats—I worship them. These aren’t just your average, run-of-the-mill feline freeloaders. No, they are divine entities, rulers of my household, and I am but a humble servant in their furry kingdom.

Each morning, I awake not to the sound of an alarm, but to the sacred ritual of King Whiskers III smacking me in the face at precisely 5:42 AM. He demands tribute in the form of treats and belly rubs (but only exactly three belly rubs, lest I face the dreaded claw of judgment).

Then there’s Sir Pouncealot, whose only goal in life is to knock every single object off my desk with the precision of an ancient warrior. I once watched him stare into my soul as he slowly pushed my last cup of coffee off the table, whispering in his native tongue: "Meow."

Princess Floofington? Oh, she’s a mastermind. She’s currently working on her fifth jailbreak from the bathroom, where she was detained for attempting to steal an entire rotisserie chicken off my plate. She nearly succeeded.

Mr. Tofu, the cowardly one, lives in the shadows. He watches. He waits. No human has laid hands upon him in 67 days, but he exists—we think.

And finally, there’s Big Tuna, my absolute unit of a cat. He’s roughly the size of a small bear, demands his own chair at the dinner table, and has been in a cold war with my vacuum cleaner for three years. So far, he’s winning.

Would I die for them? Absolutely. Would they do the same for me? No. They would feast upon my remains without hesitation if I were five minutes late to dinner. And I respect that.

My life is not my own. I exist to serve, to feed, to pet. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way. 😺👑