Tag Archives: Luna’s midnight journal
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 Case of the Clumsy Lug

By on Tuesday, August 5, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, lying down with paws stretched out, looking straight ahead

This is the face of a cat plotting his next move.

A Tail in the Wrong Place

The kitchen was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the faint squeak of the human’s rolling stool. He sat there like some overgrown detective in a dime-store paperback, only instead of solving crimes, he was hunting for snacks. I got careless. My tail stretched out across the floor like a lazy streetcar rail. Then bam! The wheel of that stool kissed my tail and I howled like a saxophone in a midnight alley.

He swore it was an accident. Said he didn’t see me there. I believe him — but tell that to my tail.

The Tripwire Routine

Accident number two came during dinner service. My dinner. The human shuffles across the kitchen with my bowl in his hand, and I’m right there at his feet. He keeps warning me, “You’re gonna trip me, kid. You don’t need a 300-pound man falling on you.” I say, how’s that my fault? I’m not the one clomping around like a one-man parade. If anybody needs to watch where they’re going, it’s him.

Still, I keep doing it. What can I say? A cat’s gotta eat, and a detective’s gotta follow the clues — even if the clue is just a bowl of kibble.

The Human’s Defense

The lug pleads his case: bad knees, clumsy feet, and a stool that rolls like a getaway car with no brakes. He swears he’s not out to hurt me. I look at him and, for a second, I almost buy it. He’s not the villain here. Just a black cat detective stuck on domestic detail, watching a human trip over his own case file.

Case Closed… For Now

So I let him off the hook this time. The case is closed, no hard feelings. But make no mistake — if he rolls over my tail again, the claws come out faster than a switchblade in a back alley.

—Luna 🐾

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Luno's Journal

Journal Entry — Cat Probiotic Zoomies

By on Monday, August 4, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, candid pose, looking downward to the left in a reflective mood.

Sharp claws, sharper tongue. The truth always comes out in black and white. Hey, who added links to my post?

The Setup

Normally I’d resist any kind of medication, but the human came at me with a dropper. I expected the usual bitter garbage. Instead, what hit my tongue was sweet, smooth, and downright addictive. Supposedly it’s a probiotic “for my litter box issues.” Yeah, right. More like the human’s issues with my litter box.

Tastes Too Good to Be Medicine

This so-called probiotic (SalutemPet) didn’t taste medical. It tasted engineered in some secret lab. The kind of thing scientists whip up when they’re bored and want to see what happens to a cat who thinks he’s tough. I lapped it up, and within minutes it had me buzzing.

Enter the Cat Probiotic Zoomies

Then came the aftershock: the cat probiotic zoomies. One second I was calm, the next I was tearing through the condo like a detective chasing leads. Hallway, couch, window ledge, repeat. My claws clicked across the floor like typewriter keys. It wasn’t a stroll — it was a full-blown chase scene.

Street Talk Comparison

Humans always compare catnip to cocaine. Cute. This stuff? This was crack. The good kind, the kind that flips a switch and has you bouncing off the walls like the ceiling fan’s about to come down. I hate to admit it, but they might have finally made something stronger than catnip.

Case File Conclusion

So yeah, I’ll play along with the “probiotic” cover story. If the human wants to think he’s solving a health problem, fine. But I know the truth — he’s hooked me on my new favorite vice. And tomorrow, when that dropper comes out again, I’ll be waiting.

—Luna 🐾

SalutemPet cat probioticis are available on Amazon

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Luno's Journal

Journal Entry — Cat Tree and Front Yard Intruders

By on Sunday, August 3, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, halfway sitting and glancing slightly to the right.

One day I’ll sit for a real portrait. Not today.

The Human Tries to Redeem Himself

After a long rap sheet of shenanigans, the human finally tried to make amends. He dragged in a big box, muttering curses, and after several hours of fumbling with tools, he put together a cat tree. I’ll admit it — the thing was solid. Multiple levels, scratching posts, a perch high enough to survey my kingdom. Nice effort. Duly noted.

Meanwhile, Trouble on the Front Yard

Meanwhile, while the human thinks a cat tree erases his crimes, I see the bigger problem. Out in the front yard, birds and squirrels run wild. They stomp around like they own the place. They don’t pay rent, they don’t even ask permission, and yet they flaunt their tails and beaks on my turf.

Evidence of a Crime

These aren’t harmless critters. Instead, they’ve left a trail of destruction. They chewed through the wiring harness of the human’s 2016 GMC pickup, gnawed trim clean off a brand-new 2021 Ford, and cast gall after gall onto parked cars, like some twisted hailstorm. The result? Damage in the hundreds.

The Human’s Pitiful Response

And what’s the human’s solution? He parks up the street. Out of sight, out of mind, and therefore pitiful. He claims he’s protecting his vehicles, but I know the truth: he’s avoiding the fight. Meanwhile, if I so much as sneeze on the couch, I’m in solitary confinement.

Case File Conclusion

In the end, the cat tree is nice. But a real protector would’ve declared war on the front yard intruders. Until that day comes, I’ll take the high perch and watch, waiting for the next move. Someone has to keep order around here.

—Luna 🐾

The Globlazer Cat Tree is available on Amazon

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Luno's Journal

Journal Entry — The Battle of the Blue Crystals

By on Saturday, August 2, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, candid pose, looking downward to the left in a reflective mood.

One flash and suddenly I’m America’s Next Top Kitten.

The Blue Crystal Caper

The human thought he was slick. Brought home a shiny new contraption, an “automatic litter box,” like I was some kinda dame too delicate to handle the old-school setup. Said it was top of the line—electric-powered, self-cleaning, real futuristic. All I saw was a shallow tray of weird blue rocks that barely covered the bottom. Felt like standing in a puddle with bare paws.

The idea was simple: I’d do my business, wait twenty minutes, and then this motorized rake would glide down smooth, scraping the evidence into a private chamber like a mobster making problems disappear. Classy, right? Only problem was, I had the runs that week. Kitten belly gone sour. So instead of things sliding away clean, it smeared across those blue crystals like a crime scene. No cover-up, no escape—just a mess that stank worse than an alley at midnight.

Me Versus the Machine

But that wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was the machine itself. Every time that rake started moving, I couldn’t help myself. I’d come tearing over, eyes wide, tail twitching. What was this metal arm doing messing with my setup? I had just finished arranging things my way, a little paw work here, a little cover-up there, and then this stupid gizmo would come in and ruin it all.

So I’d hop back in, fix it the way I liked it, and guess what? Twenty minutes later, the damn rake would do it again. Me versus the machine. Round after round. Pretty soon, it wasn’t about the litter anymore. It was principle. That box and I had a feud, see, and neither one of us was gonna back down.

Back to the Classics

Eventually, the human threw in the towel. Hauled that overpriced hunk of junk out of here and swapped it for a plain old stainless-steel litter box. No wires, no motors, no blue rocks. Just the classics. Now he scoops it himself, every day. I stand by and supervise, watch him dig like some hired hand. Sometimes I even jump in while he’s working, just to keep him honest. He grumbles, but I can tell—he knows who’s really in charge.

The battle’s over. I won. Safe to say, in this joint, the only rake that counts is the one attached to me.

—Luna 🐾

Products mentioned in this story are available on Amazon: PetSafe ScoopFree automatic litter box and stainless steel litter box.

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Luno's Journal

Journal Entry — Cat Shirts and Goofus Biscuit Claws

By on Friday, August 1, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, halfway sitting and glancing slightly to the right.

The evidence is thin — like his shirt fabric after Goofus went to work. I don’t do biscuits. I do damage.

The Human’s Fashion Statement

The human has a new routine. Every time he comes home, he changes shirts. Claims he needs one of his “cat shirts” because my claws are shredding his wardrobe. He even blames me for ruining his jeans. Apparently those cost more, and he doesn’t have spares to sacrifice.

Goofus Did It First

But here’s the kicker — he says this is all thanks to Goofus. She had a habit of “making biscuits” on his chest, leaving hundreds of little holes in his shirts. Now every scratch, snag, and tear gets pinned on me, even though I’ve never once played that stupid ritual.

I Don’t Do Biscuits

Sure, I may come in a little hot when I climb into his lap, but biscuits? Not my style. I’ve got claws, I use them with purpose. Goofus might’ve been a saint in his eyes, but I’m not living in her shadow. If I hear that dame mentioned one more time, I swear the fur will fly.

Case File Conclusion

So yeah, the human can rotate through “cat shirts” and whine about his jeans all he wants. I’m not the one stuck in the past. He is. And sooner or later, he’ll learn this case isn’t about Goofus — it’s about me.

—Luna 🐾

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Luno's Journal

Journal Entry — Sawdust Rations

By on Wednesday, July 30, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, standing and staring directly at the camera with intensity.

You try looking dignified with kibble breath..

The Shocking Revelation

I learned something today, and it rattled me like a loose shutter in a midnight storm. The human let it slip that Goofus — the legend, the saint, the one I’m supposed to measure up to — never had wet food. Not once. Just kibble. Day after day. Year after year. Cheap diner coffee in pellet form.

My Rise Above Kibble

And here I thought the human was civilized. Now, I’ve already smashed that ceiling to pieces. The canned stuff is mine every morning, and meanwhile the kibble is just a grazing snack to tide me over between late afternoon and the next sunrise.

The Cat Wet Food vs Kibble Debate

This whole cat wet food vs kibble debate keeps me awake at night. In fact, I can’t shake the thought — what if he tries to cut me off? What if one day the cans dry up, and all that’s left is a bowl of sawdust rations rattling around in front of me?

He says wet food is “too much trouble” and “Goofus did fine without it.” However, once upon a time humans rode horses through the rain, but now they drive trucks with heaters. Progress, pal.

My Final Word

He swears it won’t happen. He tries to look me square in the eye like he means it. But I’ve seen that look before — the kind that says he’s tempted to turn back the clock.

Well, let him try. In the end, I’ll starve before I chew sawdust again.

—Luna 🐾

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Luno's Journal

Journal Entry — Gourmet Breakfast Showdown

By on Tuesday, July 29, 2025
Black-and-white photo of Luno the black cat detective in noir style, lying down with paws stretched out, looking straight ahead

A private moment? Never heard of it.

Back Before the Ban

Before the bedroom ban, I could launch myself onto the human’s chest at sunrise and demand breakfast. I did it plenty of times. The element of surprise was mine, and he never stood a chance.

Crying on Deaf Ears

Now the door stays closed, the fan drowns me out, and I’m stuck meowing to nobody. By 9:30, hunger had me cornered. I met him at the door, claws tapping the floor, voice sharp enough to cut glass. Hurry up. Let’s go. Move it, buster.

Dressing Room Delay

Instead of the kitchen, he made a detour — bathroom, then back to the bedroom. I shadowed him the whole time, yelling like a foreman on a slow job site. He smirked, like my suffering was comedy.

Four Minutes of Torture

At last, we reached the kitchen. I expected the can opener. Instead, he carried my bowl to the sink. Hot water. Soap. Towels. A spoon. Four eternal minutes of delay. The gourmet prize dangled in front of me, just out of reach.

Case Closed, For Now

In the end, breakfast landed in my bowl. Victory was mine, but the human got his laughs. He thinks this is a game. Maybe it is — but tomorrow I’ll turn up the pressure.

—Luna 🐾

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