You know that saying about cats having nine lives? I swear, they spend at least eight of them silently judging their owners. My cats, for example, have perfected the art of looking at me like I’m the biggest disappointment on the planet. And honestly, it stings worse than when Karen at the park side-eyes me for handing Anthony a cookie before dinner.
It starts first thing in the morning. I shuffle into the kitchen half-asleep, hair sticking up, grabbing my coffee like it’s life support. And there they are — both perched on the counter, staring at me with those unblinking eyes. Not a “good morning.” Not a purr. Just the feline version of, “Wow. That’s your face today?” Excuse me, Mittens, but I didn’t ask for your input on my under-eye bags.
Then comes the feeding. Oh, the feeding. If I’m even one minute late, they look at me like I’ve committed war crimes. And heaven forbid I buy the wrong flavor. I could serve them organic salmon pâté sprinkled with gold flakes, and they’d sniff it, glance up at me with that icy glare, and walk away. Meanwhile, Rex will eat a cold leftover burrito without question. Tell me who’s the real king of this house.
And the way they react when the kids get involved? Nico tried to dress one up in a superhero cape last week, and the look that cat gave me was pure betrayal. Like, “This is your offspring? This is who you chose to reproduce with?” Anthony, of course, thought it was hilarious. The cat? Plotting my death. I can feel it.
They don’t just judge the kids. They judge everything. Laundry piles? They sit on top of them with an air of superiority. Me eating chips on the couch? They stare at me like, “Wow, no self-control.” Trying to sneak chocolate in the pantry? Oh, they’re there, tails flicking, making me feel like I need to explain myself to a furry therapist.
Rex doesn’t help. He just laughs and says, “They’re cats, Nat. They don’t care.” But oh, they do. They absolutely do. No one convinces me otherwise. These little creatures hold grudges longer than humans. Forget to clean the litter box one day? They’ll glare at me for a week. Leave for vacation? That’s a month-long silent treatment.
And you know what’s wild? Despite all the judgment, I still bend over backward for them. I buy the fancy food, I clean their boxes, I scratch behind their ears exactly the way they like. Because here’s the thing — as much as they judge me, they also curl up on my lap after the kids are in bed, purring like I’m the best thing in their world. And somehow, that makes up for all the shade.
So yeah, strangers might give me side-eye in Target, and other moms might think I’m unhinged when I yell across the playground, but nothing cuts deeper than the disappointed look of a housecat. It’s fine. I’ll just keep living under their scrutiny. At least they can’t talk — though if they ever do, I’m doomed.