My Cat Thinks I Work for Her: A Day in My Servitude

Introduction:

If you've ever lived with a cat, you know that they own you rather than you own them. As a proud but slightly defeated servant to my feline overlord, Whiskers, I have learned to accept that my life revolves around her needs, whims, and demands. The more I try to establish dominance, the more I realize I’m merely a background character in her kingdom. This is the tale of my daily life, filled with humor, frustration, and an overwhelming sense of inferiority to a creature that weighs barely more than a bag of flour.

The Alarm Clock for the Early Morning: Every morning, without fail, Whiskers has a set routine. She wakes up precisely at 5:30 in the morning, no matter how late I go to bed or how exhausted I am. I no longer even require an alarm clock. Whiskers' biological rhythm is far more punctual than any device I own.

I’m still in the midst of a very important dream about winning the lottery and buying a house made of tacos when I hear it — the soft sound of paws padding across the floor. Then comes the first meow. It’s not just any meow; it’s an authoritative meow, the kind that says, "I’ve been waiting for this moment all night, and I will not wait a moment longer."

I groggily open one eye, thinking that maybe if I ignore her, she’ll give up. But no, it comes back, this time louder. It’s like she knows how much I treasure my sleep and makes it her mission to destroy it.

She starts gently tapping at the side of my bed. At first, it’s a soft touch, almost like a reminder that I’m supposed to be serving her. But it quickly escalates into a full-fledged assault. She starts with my arm and then the blanket. “Fine! I’m up!” As I get out of bed, I murmur, fully aware that this is just the beginning of my long and never-ending servitude. As I shuffle into the kitchen, Whiskers follows me with an air of triumph, her tail held high like a flag of victory. She knows she has control. I know she’s in charge. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I accept it. I open the cabinet, grabbing her favorite breakfast (wet food, of course), and place it in front of her. She gives me a look that says, Finally, you’re doing something right.

Feeding Time and the Counter Incident:

The first task of the day is feeding Whiskers, but no, it doesn’t end there. I begin to consider having my own breakfast as I watch her eat. Maybe some toast and coffee to start the day. But that’s where I’m wrong. I feel the familiar weight of her presence at my feet as soon as I take the first bite of my toast. Looking down, I see Whiskers staring up at me with those wide, judgmental eyes. It’s as if she’s saying, You dare eat without sharing with me?

I try to ignore her, but her eyes never leave me. The silence is palpable, and it hangs in the air like a threat. Her patience soon runs out. She leaps onto the counter, getting dangerously close to my coffee mug. One swift movement, and I’ll be wearing it instead of drinking it.

“Really?” I whisper under my breath. But before I can even think about shooing her off, she knocks a pen off the counter. It falls to the floor with a loud clink, and I know what comes next. A paw, raised high, poised to strike again. It’s not a question of whether she will knock something else off — it’s just a matter of what.

I sigh and grab a treat for her. Her happiness is immediate. She gives me a satisfied glance before jumping down from the counter, as though she’s just completed a very important mission. Knowing full well that her whims have taken precedence over my own breakfast, I attempt to salvage the remaining portion in the meantime.

The Midday Mischief:

By the time I’m finished with breakfast and beginning my day’s work, Whiskers is already plotting her next move. Unpredictability is a part of her charm, or maybe it's part of her plan to keep control over my life. It's always a surprise. I’m sitting at my desk, trying to get through some emails, when I hear it. The faintest sound of nails scraping against the hardwood. I glance down, and there she is — sitting on the edge of my desk, staring at me like she’s waiting for an invitation.

I don’t invite her, but she doesn’t need an invitation. She jumps onto the desk anyway, knocking over a stack of papers in the process. “Hey! I needed those!” Whiskers doesn't care that I'm crying. She’s more interested in knocking my pens off one by one, the way a child might break their toys just for fun.

At this point, I realize there’s no use in trying to be productive. I start petting her to avoid the inevitable destruction that follows when I refuse her attention. She purrs contentedly, looking up at me as if to say, I knew you’d come around eventually.

But then, just as I think I’m free to work, I hear the unmistakable sound of scratching. She’s trying to claw her way into my desk drawer. “No, Whiskers!” I yell and try to stop her right away, but she gives me that look again. You know the one — the “I’ll do it anyway, and there’s nothing you can do about it” look.

The Power Nap in the Afternoon: Around noon, I decide it’s time for a break. My mind is beginning to become hazy after working for hours. A quick nap is a great way to recharge, right? She will undoubtedly comprehend that I require some rest after all the attention I have paid to Whiskers. I crawl into bed, thinking about the soft pillow and warm blankets. However, as I prepare to settle in, I experience chest pressure. Whiskers has taken a seat on the bed and settled in. Not beside me, not on the edge of the bed — no, she’s lying directly on top of me, pinning me down.

Her eyes are closed in contentment as she purrs, while I lie there thinking, This is my life now. Every time I move to adjust my position, she lets out a small huff and shifts her weight slightly to remind me that she is in charge.

Minutes turn into hours as I lie there, fully aware that I’m not going to get any real rest. She gently reminds me that my comfort is more important to her than mine every time I try to move. The Evening Walk and Dinner Demands:

As the day progresses, Whiskers grows more demanding. By the time evening rolls around, she’s ready for her daily outdoor stroll. Yes, you read that correctly: she gets a walk outside, which is more like “dragging me through the yard while I try to keep up” than a “walk.” I put on her leash, open the door, and reluctantly step outside. Whiskers takes a few steps, pauses, and sniffs the air like she’s planning her next move. I try to walk at a reasonable pace, but she’s more interested in pacing in circles, occasionally darting after a leaf or an ant, as though she’s on some kind of grand adventure. Meanwhile, I stand there, holding the leash, feeling like a personal assistant to a spoiled child.

Once she’s had her fill of fresh air, she’s ready to come back inside. She gives me a look that says, "You may continue with your evening now" as we enter the house. I prepare her dinner, which she accepts with the kind of dignity only a cat can have. I sit down to enjoy my own meal, but Whiskers isn’t done yet. She stares at me as I eat, a silent demand for a share of my food. It’s not enough to be fed. She must also be fed what I’m eating, too.

The Final Nighttime Ritual:

By the time evening has arrived and I’m ready for bed, Whiskers is still awake, and she’s ready for her final round of attention. She hops onto the bed, walks to my pillow, and begins to knead it with her paws as though preparing it for the night.

I try to ignore her, but she isn’t having it. She’ll paw at me, nudge my face, or climb over me until I give her the petting session she believes she’s entitled to. Once I’ve succumbed to her demands, she curls up next to me, satisfied with the outcome.

And then, finally, I can close my eyes, exhausted. Another day of servitude to my demanding cat has come to an end.

Conclusion:

I consider the day as I drift off to sleep. Whiskers may be small, but she is mighty. From the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep, my life revolves around her whims. And though I sometimes fantasize about a life without her reign of terror, I know deep down that I wouldn’t change a thing. I've come to the realization that I wouldn't want it any other way, despite the fact that she believes I work for her.