I swear my cats hold nightly board meetings about me. They sit there on the back of the couch, tails flicking, eyes narrowed, whispering in that silent cat telepathy way, and I know they’re plotting something. Probably my untimely demise. Or at least a really good scare involving hairballs in my shoes.
It’s in the way they stare. You ever have a cat lock eyes with you at 3 a.m. when you get up for water? It’s not a “hi mom, love you” look. It’s a cold, calculated “your days are numbered” glare. Sometimes one of them even perches above me while I sleep, just watching. No purr, no meow, just… plotting. And yet, like an idiot, I think, “aww, how sweet, she’s keeping me company.” Yeah right. More like she’s studying my weaknesses.
Nico thinks it’s hilarious. He’ll whisper, “Mom, the cats are spies,” and honestly, he’s not wrong. Anthony, on the other hand, tries to squeeze them like stuffed animals, which only adds fuel to their grudge. I’m pretty sure one of them already has a dartboard with Anthony’s face on it. Meanwhile Rex says, “They’re just cats, Nat.” Excuse me, but no. Dogs worship their humans. Cats plot.
Their methods are subtle, but effective. Tripping me on the stairs? Check. Pretending to want cuddles, then clawing my arm? Double check. Staring me down while I eat ice cream, like, “enjoy that now, human, it’ll be your last spoonful.” I even caught one of them sitting on my laptop the other day, suspiciously close to my Google password manager. Don’t tell me they’re not scheming.
And their timing is impeccable. They wait until the kids are asleep, until the house is quiet, then start their chaos. Knocking things off counters one by one, eyes glowing in the dark hallway like mini villains. It’s like they’re training for something. A coup, probably. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I wake up and they’re wearing little uniforms, commanding the kids to feed them on schedule while I’m tied to the bed with shoelaces.
Here’s the thing, though—I still love love love them. Even while I’m side-eyeing them back, wondering if they’re planning to push me down the stairs, I melt when they curl up in my lap. They purr, they knead, and suddenly I forget all about their sinister little plots. Maybe that’s their real power. Manipulation. Get me soft, get me cozy, then strike when the moment’s right.
So yeah, strangers might think I’m dramatic, but deep down every cat mom knows the truth: these furry dictators are plotting something. And when the day comes, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Until then, I’ll be over here, sipping my coffee while my cats stare holes into me, waiting.