There’s nothing quite like the sweet, peaceful moment of finally sitting down with coffee in hand, logging into a Zoom call, and thinking, yes, I can do this, I can look professional for thirty minutes. And then—like clockwork—the cat decides it’s time to audition for Broadway.
I’m not exaggerating. She doesn’t just meow. She unleashes a full-scale performance, dramatic wails echoing through the house like she’s warning the neighbors of impending doom. But here’s the kicker: she’s not yelling at me. Oh no, she’s screaming at the wall. The blank, beige, completely uninteresting wall. I’ve checked it a hundred times. Nothing there. No bug, no shadow, no ghost (I hope). Just wall.
Of course, this never happens when the house is chaotic—kids fighting over Legos, Rex blending something so loud it could rattle the windows, Anthony insisting he needs to poop right now. No, she saves her masterpiece for the moment I unmute on Zoom. Suddenly I’m smiling at coworkers, trying to sound like a functioning adult, while in the background: “MRAAOOOWWW! HAAAUUUURRLLL!”
Nico thinks it’s hilarious and sometimes tries to translate for her. “Mom, she says she’s bored.” Thanks, Nico, I’ll be sure to tell my boss the cat is bored and that’s why nobody can hear me over the feline opera. Rex, of course, is useless. He’ll shrug and say, “She’s just being a cat.” Yes, Rex, I know she’s a cat. But why does she have to sound like she’s summoning demons every time I have a meeting?
The worst is when I try to shush her. I’ll grab a toy, shake treats, open the window—anything to stop the wall-staring concert. She ignores me completely. It’s like she feeds on my frustration. My coworkers probably think I live in a haunted house by now, because I’ve given up explaining. I just smile like nothing’s happening while my cat belts out another aria in the background.
And honestly, part of me respects the commitment. She’s consistent. She knows her audience. She doesn’t care that she’s ruining my reputation as a semi-serious adult. She just wants to scream at a wall, and she’s going to do it loudly, proudly, and always at the worst possible time.
So if you ever wonder what’s happening behind my muted camera, it’s probably me mouthing “stop it” at a cat who’s decided to put on her one-woman show. Forget opera houses. Forget Broadway. The real performance venue is my living room wall at 10:03 a.m., just as I try to say, “Good morning, everyone.”
And in case you’re wondering, yes, she stops the second I leave the call. Every. Single. Time.