After Schmutz’s little influencer disaster (see: The Fake Fame Catastrophe), Mum and I found ourselves in a late-night conversation about money, support, and the strange ways we show love. Schmutz had wanted fifty euros to buy fake fame from a scammer. Mum refused—but the thought lingered. Not because she believed in the offer, but because, deep down, she wanted Schmutz to feel supported. And that made her wonder… what about me?
Mum named me Franzi Katzka with a clear vision: a name fit for a feline star, a sleek black cat destined for the spotlight, a catfluencer in the making.
It made sense, I suppose. I had the elegance, the striking contrast of gleaming black fur against my luminous anime eyes. My movements were poised, my expressions refined. I could have been a brand.
But I wasn’t interested.
Mum saw that early. She never forced it, never pushed me into the ring light or cooed for performances I didn’t care to give. She let me be what I wanted: a cat first, a caretaker second, and a content shadow in my own home. I was relieved.
Schmutz, ironically, was never considered. Not at first.
She was too shy, her spirit too hesitant. The damaged tail—curved, imperfect, a story with no clear beginning—kept her in the background. And in a world where breed standards ruled, little details mattered.
But time did something unexpected.
While I quietly retreated from the curated gaze of the internet, Schmutz found herself stepping into it. What was once a skittish little sister became something else entirely—a character, a spectacle, a presence. And the world loved her for it.
Mum sighs, running gentle fingers over my fur. “Sometimes I think she’s forgetting how to be a cat.”
I understand.
Schmutz talks more than she meows. She moves with a self-awareness I recognize in humans, not felines. She lives as if she is being watched—because she is. And while she thrives in that light, it casts a long shadow behind her.
“I wanted to spend fifty euros on her today,” Mum muses.
“For Schmutz?” I ask.
“For me,” she corrects.
I blink.
“What makes you happy is making me happy, and I didn’t really care that the offer was scammy. I wanted her to feel supported. Just like I always wonder how to support you—and most importantly, how to make you feel supported.”
A low, understanding rumble hums in my throat.
Schmutz does dance. She lives in a world of reactions, of hearts and comments and numbers that either validate or betray her. I see the way she craves it, the way she curls herself into whatever shape gets the most love. She shines, but I wonder if she even knows why she does it anymore.
Mum shifts again, her voice dipping into something softer. “And you, Franzi?”
I blink.
“You’re so independent,” she murmurs, almost guilty. “I never worry about you. And then I worry that I never worry. You don’t fight for food, so sometimes I pick you up and put you next to the bowl. I make extra portions. But I always wonder… do you have enough, or are you just too polite to ask?”
She strokes a hand over my back, and I feel it—the weight of being noticed.
I am silent for a moment. Not because I don’t have an answer, but because I am considering how it feels to be asked the question at all.
“I have enough,” I tell her finally. “But thank you for making sure.”
She nods, pressing a small kiss to my forehead.
And then, without a word, she rises.
I watch as she moves across the room to the great, towering wardrobe—the holy grail of forgotten treasures. She pulls open the heavy wooden doors, revealing a world of boxes inside, each with thick ropes for handles.
I flick an ear, intrigued.
Mum tugs on one of the ropes, and as it slides free, it transforms—unfurling in her hands, its loose strands forming the familiar shape of a Bommel.
She turns to me, dangling the sacred relic between her fingers.
No cameras. No audience. No performance.
Just us.
I leap from the bed in a single bound, tail flicking high, pupils blown wide. The game is on.
Schmutz can have her fame.
Tonight, Mum and I have something better.
