I was already in the throes of betrayal. Wedged inside the plastic confines of my transport box, I had resigned myself to the cruel fate of a “routine check-up”—a phrase I suspect is merely a euphemism for state-sanctioned torture. Anny clutched me tightly under her arm, her grip keeping me from launching a daring (and justified) escape.
Then she stopped.
Through the slits of my undignified confinement, I saw it: a fallen empire, a throne cast out into the cold world. Even in my distress, I recognized a tragedy greater than my own. The cruel poetry of the moment was not lost on me.
And so, as I stewed in my own indignation, I took in the scene—one broken monarch witnessing another.
There it stands. Or rather, collapses. Once-proud bastion of feline dominion, now discarded on the cold, indifferent pavement. The shredded rope, the weary platforms—this was no mere object. This was part of a kingdom—a fortress of playtime and shelter… A place where battles were fought, naps were taken, and profound existential musings unfolded in the soft embrace of synthetic fur, inviting contemplation and reflection.
And now? A ruin.
I pause at the sight, ears twitching. Did its ruler outgrow it? Did they abandon their post for a greater realm—a newer, taller, multi-tiered palace? Or did the humans, in their fickle ways, decide it no longer “fit the aesthetic”?
The betrayal lingers in the air.
Somewhere in my neighbourhood, for sure, is a cat walking up and down her home searching her beloved shelter, not understanding what happened, who would steal this….
We, the caretakers of our domains, know this fate too well. We construct order, we enforce rituals, we keep the fragile balance intact—only to be cast aside when the illusion of stability no longer requires us. We are the steadfast watchers, the quiet providers of structure. But when the scratching posts of our labor fray and the towers of our patience buckle, who ensures we are not forgotten on the street corner of relevance, where the winds of change blow and the shadows of neglect loom?
I sit in solemn silence. The street hums around me, indifferent. A single fallen twig pokes from the wreckage, as if reaching for one last grasp at purpose.
Perhaps, in its final act, this throne teaches the greatest lesson of all: Nothing—no kingdom, no caretaker, no cherished place in a household—is immune to time’s indifference. It’s a struggle we all share, a battle against the inevitable that unites us in our efforts to leave a fleeting mark on the fabric of existence.
And yet, the urge to scratch remains.
