I did the thing. I bought my cat a bed. Not just any bed — a plush, cozy, aesthetically pleasing one that matched my living room rug. Forty dollars. Do you know what happened? She sniffed it, looked at me like I was out of my mind, and then walked straight into the Target box it came in. Sat down. Owned it. Fell asleep like she’d been waiting for that cardboard castle her whole life.
This is the mystery of cats. You give them comfort, they choose trash. You spend money, they choose the freebie. Meanwhile, Anthony is dragging the box around the house yelling, “It’s her car!” and Nico is trying to climb in it too, and now I’m just sitting there watching my forty-dollar bed collect dust in the corner.
The thing is, she doesn’t just like boxes. She worships them. Big box, little box, Amazon envelope—she doesn’t discriminate. If it’s vaguely square, she’s in it. She’ll curl herself into a tiny cardboard shoebox like some kind of furry origami. And the smugness on her face when she does it? As if to say, “Look at me, I am infinite comfort, and you, human, are a fool.”
And of course, Rex thinks it’s hilarious. “Should’ve saved the money,” he says, sipping his drink while the cat lounges in garbage. Oh, thank you, Rex, so helpful. Maybe next time I’ll just wrap a used pizza box and call it enrichment.
Here’s the kicker: she uses the expensive bed, but only out of spite. Like, she waits until 2 a.m., when everyone’s asleep, then she’ll tiptoe onto it, curl up, and enjoy her secret luxury nap. By morning? Back in the box. It’s like she knows I’ll never catch her in the act, but she still wants to prove a point.
And the kids… oh, the kids. Nico insists the box is the “real bed” and decorated it with crayons. Anthony keeps dropping Goldfish in there like offerings. The poor expensive bed? It’s now a stuffed animal chair in the corner. My cat has fully relinquished her claim on it, which I think was her plan all along.
I don’t get it. Is it the smell? The crinkle? The thrill of being inside literal trash? I’ll never know, because cats are too smug to explain themselves. But I swear, every time she curls up in that ugly cardboard box, tail tucked in, eyes half-shut like she’s queen of the world, I can hear her whispering: “You wasted your money, Natalie. And I win.”
So yeah, I own a forty-dollar decorative bed that no one uses except stuffed unicorns, while my cat reigns supreme in a Target shipping box. Honestly, I should’ve known better. She doesn’t need luxury—just cardboard and the satisfaction of making me feel like the dumbest person alive.