Confessions of a Desert Diva (Also, I’m a Cat)

By Valentina the Fabulous

Every morning, like clockwork, I sit dramatically on the edge of the bed, gazing out at the sunrise like I’m the star of a slow indie film that’s about love, loss, and luxury naps. The slider is open just a crack. The desert breeze drifts in, teasing my whiskers. The light hits me just right—I’m basically glowing. I am serving mood.

The screen is closed, though. Always the screen. Because apparently, “cats and coyotes don’t mix.”

Buzzkill. Thanks, Mommy.

I sit there, stone still, eyes sharp. I wait. I breathe. I become one with the desert silence.

And then—they appear.

The Ducks.

My ducky squad arrives with attitude, strutting across the backyard like they own the HOA. There’s Chad, the bold one. Lacey, who always lingers behind with mysterious grace. And Quackers… well, he’s kind of the comic relief. They waddle right up to the window, and I leap off the bed with the precision of a feline ninja—albeit with the grace of a slightly overconfident gymnast.

I press my nose to the glass. We chat. They quack. I meow. It’s a full-on bilingual brunch club. Then they head toward the pool for their spa day. I watch them disappear into the water like tiny floaty royalty. Honestly, if you're going to swim, swim in style.

By mid-morning, Mommy closes the sliders with her usual mantra: “We’re not air conditioning the outdoors!” Ugh. This is why I can't have a live-in duck.

So, I climb to my high-rise condo—also known as my cat tree—which offers sweeping 360-degree views of My Domain. Observation mode: activated.

Birds flit across the yard. I chirp back enthusiastically, like I’m auditioning for The Voice: Backyard Edition. My vocal range is impressive. One day, they’ll recognize my talent. Until then, I sing to the wind and the wind sings back.

And then comes the moment I’ve truly been waiting for.

My arch-nemesis-slash-secret-bestie: Mr. Lizard.

Every day around the same time, he scampers up to the slider like, “What’s up, fuzzball?” And every day, I leap down, ready for our showdown. It’s a dance, a ritual, a game of speed and cunning. He darts along the outside ledge, I sprint inside. He zips toward the bedroom slider, I’m right behind him.

We’ve been doing this for weeks. I never win.

But that’s not the point. The point is—we keep showing up.

Afternoons are for napping, obviously. Sometimes in the linen closet (cozy), sometimes in the laundry basket (freshly folded, naturally), and sometimes right in the middle of the hallway because obstacles build character.

Eventually, the sun starts to dip. Mommy reopens the slider. The golden hour floods in like magic. This is my time. I dramatically flop onto her yoga mat, striking poses that scream desert-core glam. Think “Sphinx,” “Upside Down Loaf,” and the classic “Dead Cat.” Nailed it.

Mommy sometimes joins me. She stretches in weird ways. I watch politely. We vibe.

As the sky turns cotton-candy pink, my rooftop girl appears—the gray dove. Every evening she perches on the corner of the roof like she’s about to drop an exclusive single. She coos. I meow in harmony. Together, we perform a haunting desert duet that would sell out at Coachella if birds were allowed to headline. We’re artists. Don’t try to label us.

The day winds down. The ducks are gone, Mr. Lizard has vanished into the night, and the dove gives her final encore.

I curl into a crescent moon on the bed, tail tucked, ears twitching with dreams. I nap. I dream of ducks in matching sunglasses, endless yoga mats, and the thrill of one day catching that smug little lizard—just once, for the glory.

Desert life? It’s exhausting being this fabulous.

But someone has to do it.