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 🐾