It started as a normal morning.
Schmutz and I were minding our own business—which is to say, sitting in the hallway, judging the world in silence. The humans were still half-asleep, the food bowls were full, and all was as it should be.
Then, the howling began.
A distant, desperate, almost theatrical wailing, floating up from the street like the cries of a lost soul.
I flicked an ear. Schmutz sat up straighter, pupils dilating.
The screams grew louder.
A cat, somewhere outside, was in deep distress.
We rushed to the window.
Mum, still drowsy, heard it next.
“Oh no,” she whispered, clutching her heart. “That poor thing…”
And that’s when she appeared.
The Arrival of the So-Called “Lost Soul”
Mum, driven by her trademark bleeding heart, was at the door in seconds. Felix followed, grumbling but too soft-hearted to ignore the cries.
And then, she arrived.
A small, shivering cat with perfectly ruffled fur and big, sorrowful eyes.
And, of course—it was a ginger.
Now, let’s be honest. Ginger cats have a reputation. Known for their reckless confidence, selective intelligence, and unmatched ability to cause chaos, they are universally beloved and deeply untrustworthy.
And this one? She was the textbook case.
She looked just weak enough to be pitiful but not weak enough to be genuinely sick. A carefully curated aesthetic—messy enough to invite sympathy but not too far gone to be an actual problem.
Schmutz and I exchanged a glance.
We knew a con when we saw one.
From my perch atop the cat tree, I watched the intruder slink into our home like it owned the place. My sleek black fur rippled with tension, my wide eyes narrowing.
This was no naïve kitten.
This was a practiced performer.
A veteran scammer.
And Schmutz, dramatic though she may be, had clearly come to the same conclusion. She puffed up to twice her size, letting out a low, ominous growl.
For once, we were in perfect agreement:
This cat had to go.
Schmutz and I Smell a Rat (Or a Con Artist)
From my perch, I watched as the stranger made herself at home.
Schmutz, for once, had no interest in being the center of attention. Instead, she sat stiffly by the food bowls, eyes locked on the intruder.
Mum, meanwhile, had already begun her tragic monologue.
“How could someone abandon such a sweet little thing?” she sighed, stroking the cat like a Victorian governess saving an orphan.
Felix, rubbing his face in exhaustion, mumbled something about calling a shelter.
I knew better.
This was not a lost cat.
This was not a helpless creature in need of our care.
This was an opportunist.
A seasoned actress.
A con artist.
And Schmutz and I were the only ones who could see the truth.
The Battle for Home
Mum, oblivious to the threat, fussed over the interloper, warming up food and murmuring sweet reassurances.
Meanwhile, the Trickbetrügerkatze prowled the living room, rubbing its cheek on furniture like it was already making a property claim.
I felt physically ill.
The audacity.
The disrespect.
The sheer nerve of this scammer in fur!
Schmutz and I moved as one, issuing a synchronized battle cry—a chorus of hisses, growls, and accusatory yowls.
Mum scolded us for being “unwelcoming.”
But we knew better.
This cat wasn’t lost.
It wasn’t abandoned.
It was a con artist, a professional freeloader, and our humans were its next mark.
Mum Thinks I’m an AFD Voter Now
I made my feelings known.
I hissed.
I growled.
I let out a single, razor-sharp warning meow.
Mum, scandalized, turned to me with a look of betrayal.
“Franzi,” she gasped. “You can’t just assume bad things about a new arrival! You sound like—like some kind of AFD voter!”
Schmutz nearly fell over.
The insult. The accusation.
I, Franzi Katzka, who has spent years welcoming new humans, soothing family anxieties, and maintaining household peace, was now being compared to a reactionary xenophobe because I refused to accept a grifter into our home.
This was an outrage.
The Trick is Revealed
Schmutz and I had no choice but to escalate.
We issued a final, synchronized warning.
Mum remained appalled.
“I can’t believe you two,” she muttered. “Where is your compassion?”
Felix, however, had started reading the collar tag.
And that’s when we discovered the truth.
This wasn’t just any roaming trickster.
This was a state-recognized fraudster.
The pet registration database had its name. It was officially logged as a local freigänger—a cat with a documented history of wandering into homes and playing the role of an abandoned soul.
This was a professional.
A government-recognized trickster.
A fully documented scammer, running a well-established operation.
Mum stared at the information in stunned silence.
Schmutz and I glowed with smug victory.
Felix, ever the realist, picked up the interloper and muttered, “Alright, you little con artist, time to go home.”
And then, just as the door closed, we saw it.
The Trickbetrügerkatze wasn’t even fazed.
She simply turned—and went straight to another apartment door.
Trying her luck again.
Final Thoughts
- We were right.
- Mum was wrong.
- Being skeptical does NOT make me an AFD voter.
- I will never let Mum forget this.
