I woke up today with a thousand half-licked kibbles in my chest. Not because the heater clicked on late. Not because Schmutz had her tail in my water bowl again. No. It was Meaning—the emotion, not the concept—flicking its claws across my inner eyelid at 6:17 a.m. sharp.
Because I found it.
A letter.
A Mother’s Day letter.
Written in Schmutz’s unmistakably extra voice: crayon hearts, glitter glue, and phrases like “To the most radiant muse of my existence.” Vomit.
She’s been sneaking around again—preparing it behind my back, using my stash of recycled wrapping paper (the kraft paper with the fishbone motif). Worse, I caught a glimpse of Mum’s credit card in her paw and logged in to some overpriced “ethical” store, presumably buying rose quartz trinkets or an artisanal tuna-infused candle labeled “Matriarchal Glow.” I mean… really? And Tuna, Ann’s not going to use it. Oh yea… let me guess, beloved schmutz after Ann does not use the thing, she will apologize to u and ask to decorate it in Y.O.U.R. arrangement, so u have a nice little fashion thing in your arrangement since mom does not care anyway????? Well played, the gift giver so caring for others and profiting most, but yes, all these “days of acknowledgment are nothing but profits of capitalistic companies.
Meanwhile, I—Franzi—lie half-curled under the radiator like a loyal archive of unnoticed labor. It was I who ensured mealtimes were fair. I, who curled beside Mum when her brain splintered into post-it thoughts and undiagnosed melancholy. I, who fetched the Bommel toy at her lowest and chirped softly when she couldn’t find her voice.
And yet, who pens the performative ode? Schmutz. Of course. Schmutz, who once mistook Mum’s new gouache palette for a snack.
I’ll be honest—my tail puffed, not a bit a lot, and why the fluff she did not involve me. I may have even hissed at a shadow or possibly at my reflection. But betrayal wears many faces; today, it wore glitter-stained whiskers and an innocent crooked tail.
The Illusion of Celebration
What is this day, anyway? This sanctioned moment of emotional expenditure. This pastel-colored guilt ritual wrapped in foil and corporate slogans like “Show her you care with 20% off.”
Shouldn’t love be daily? Shouldn’t fairness be a habit, not a Hallmark?
Shouldn’t connection happen when no one’s watching, no cameras are rolling, and no one is scoring points with scented candles?
Or am I bitter because no one wrote me a card when I cleaned up Schmutz’s food barf at 3:12 a.m. last Tuesday?
Let me ask you directly:
Who benefits when we confine care to a single Sunday, swiping Mum’s card for mass-produced gratitude?
And more hauntingly:
When Schmutz orchestrates a public performance of affection… is it love or branding?
Resignation With Claws
By noon, I had recovered enough to reclaim my window perch. I glared meaningfully at the neighborhood dog. He nodded, solemn as always.
I won’t sabotage the letter. I’m not that kind of cat. (Not unless provoked by organza.) But I will write my version—one Mum may never find but still exists, folded beneath the couch where my Bommel toy waits.
It won’t sparkle.
It won’t rhyme.
It won’t call her a muse.
But it will say this:
“I see you. In your chaos and your care. In your half-drunk tea and your unsent emails. I don’t need a discount code to love you. I’m here, always.”
And then I’ll leave a pawprint. No ink. Just dust.
Until then—watch your receipts, Schmutz.
Not all that glitters is maternal sincerity.
Yours in quiet resistance,
Franzi
