Tag Archives: Luna the cat
Luno's Journal

Journal entry – The Morning the House Breathed

By on Friday, August 22, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, halfway sitting and glancing slightly to the right.

Not my best work, but still better than Goofus.

The house opens wide

The human pulled a stunt I wasn’t expecting. He opened the place up like a speakeasy with all the doors and windows wide. Sliding glass, front door, even the hallway. For the first time since I moved in, the house actually breathed. A soft breeze rolled in, 79 degrees, humidity high but not unbearable — at least not for St. Louis.

Watching from the cat tree

From my perch on the cat tree, I caught it all. The smells, the sounds, the whispers of critters outside. Birds chattering like gossip columnists, bugs droning their endless song. The squirrels? Quiet. Suspiciously quiet. I figure my presence keeps them away. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

One month on the job

Maybe it’s the lazy air, maybe it’s the timing, but I find myself thinking ahead. Tomorrow makes one month in this joint. I’m weighing it all — the pros, the cons, the grievances. Whether this human’s worth the trouble or if I should start casing an escape route.

A 6:30 standoff

Speaking of trouble, we didn’t get off to the smoothest morning. At 6:30 I pulled out a new tactic in my ongoing effort to break the human in. I stormed the bed like it was a crime scene — running across the covers, pouncing on top of him, purring loud enough to rattle the walls, meowing like a siren in the night. Anything to get him up.

He stirred, stumbled to the bathroom, and I thought I had him. But when he came back, he closed the bathroom door behind him. A quiet move, but I knew what it meant. He was plotting. One more step and he’d lock me out of the bedroom completely. So I dialed it back. I let him think he won and I stayed quiet until 8:30.

That’s when I tried again. And this time, the human got up. Victory? Not quite. Out of spite, he headed straight for the shower instead of the kitchen. No food, no can cracked open, nothing but the sound of running water. Eventually he came out and fed me, but not until after the shower. Point to him, maybe. But the game isn’t over.

The case continues

So I’ll give him that. For now. Tomorrow’s another case file, and an anniversary at that.

—Luna 🐾

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Luno's Journal

Journal entry – The Case of the Vanishing Ice Cubes

By on Monday, August 18, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, sitting and looking upward to the left.

Don’t ask me what I was looking at — I don’t remember.

The freezer door opens

The joint was quiet, too quiet. Then the freezer door creaked open like a guilty conscience. I knew what was coming. Ice cubes. Cold, slick, and mysterious as a stranger in a smoky bar.

The first vanishing act

At first, they gave me the slip. One would slide under the icebox and I’d stake it out for days, certain it had to crawl back out. Didn’t know then that cubes don’t come back. They just vanish, melted away like promises never kept.

The water bowl trick

Later, I learned another trick of theirs. In my water bowl they’d cool the drink, then disappear without so much as a goodbye. That’s when the human got wise—he started dropping them straight onto the floor, just for me. And that’s when I cracked the case: ice cubes disappear no matter where they land.

Better than any toy

Still, they’re fun. More fun than any toy. Even better than an Amazon box—and believe me, that’s saying something. But humans don’t leave boxes out forever. Ice cubes? They’re the real deal. The greatest toy a cat could ever ask for.

The mystery remains

And the mystery? That’s the part that gnaws at me. Since I moved in on July 23, I’ve watched the human shovel out enough cubes to fill ten litter boxes. Yet the supply never runs dry. Nobody hauls them in. Nobody delivers them. They just keep appearing, day after day, from that cold box five feet above my reach. I can see where they come out, but not where they’re born.

So I’ll keep my eyes sharp and my paws ready. One day, I’ll crack the case of the vanishing ice cubes. Until then, I’m watching.

—Luna 🐾

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Luno's Journal

Journal entry – The Distinguished Mutt Next Door

By on Tuesday, August 12, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, standing and staring directly at the camera with intensity.

Pickles barks, humans cheer. I meow once and it’s “be quiet, Luno.”

Pickles the Mutt Next Door

Every block’s got its legend. Mine happens to be on the other side of the wall — a mutt by the name of Pickles. He’s two years old, part Chihuahua and part Yorkie, with that scrappy charm that makes him seem older and wiser to a kitten like me.

A Taste for Jazz and Talk Radio

When the humans clear out, Pickles takes over. Jazz drifts through the wall, smooth and steady, like he’s running his own nightclub after hours. Other times it’s talk radio, voices laying out politics, sports, and the news of the day. To me, Pickles isn’t just listening — he’s keeping up with the world, a cultured hound with refined taste.

The Bark That Owns the Night

But when the sun goes down, that’s when Pickles really shows his mettle. I hear him outside, letting loose with his sharp, high-pitched bark. He puts the night on notice — raccoons, strays, anything lurking in the shadows. It might be more show than bite, but from my side of the wall it sounds like bravery. I feel safer knowing he’s out there, standing guard.

A Kitten’s Admiration

He’s more than just the mutt next door. To me, Pickles is the jazz lover, the news reader, the night watchman — distinguished, brave, and a little mysterious. He may never notice a kitten like me, but that doesn’t change the fact that I admire him.

—Luna 🐾

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Luno's Journal

Journal Entry — The Neighbor, the Mutt, and the Flight Risk

By on Friday, July 25, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, sitting and looking upward to the left.

Don’t ask me what I was looking at — I don’t remember.

Chained to a Routine

I met one of the neighbors today. A female human with a mutt named Pickles. He barks like he’s auditioning for a monster picture, but so far he hasn’t sent any of that hostility my way. Poor guy’s chained to routine. My human says Pickles is a flight risk. To take care of business, he’s gotta wait on his human, get strapped into a leash, and march through a ritual called a walk.

I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Me? I got it easy. My litter box is always ready, no curfew, no leash, no permission slip. Sure, the human used to clean it daily, now it’s more of an every-other-day gig. But it’s serviceable. A cat can work with it.

A Case of the “Flight Risk”

Funny thing—I’ve heard my human call me a flight risk. Claims he wanted a younger kitten so he could break bad habits early: counter-jumping, door-darting, the usual wrap sheet. Then there’s the constant comparison to Goofus, the sainted feline from his past. Supposedly, Goofus never touched countertops, never bolted for the door.

Yeah, right. Newsflash, human: Goofus just had the sense not to do it in front of you. Every cat runs their own angles. I’m no different. Only difference is, I don’t hide my game.

The Verdict

So here I am, filed under “flight risk,” while Pickles plays the real prisoner. That’s life in the neighborhood—a dog on a leash, a cat accused, and a human who thinks he’s got it all figured out.

But between you and me, the jury’s still out.

—Luna 🐾

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