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Some call it routine—I call it survival. Between two homes, shifting sunbeams, and the never-ending absurdity of human behavior, life demands constant adaptation. Food schedules are negotiated, perches are defended, and certain injustices (like a closed door) must be addressed. This is where I document the balance between comfort and quiet defiance—because even the most predictable days deserve a little rebellion.
A cinematic kitchen scene blending nightmare and waking reality. On the left, a warped, dreamlike vision: a monstrous sourdough jar looms in fog, Mum and Felix partially fused into dough, and Schmutz perched above, haunting and flour-dusted. On the right, the kitchen returns to morning calm—clean counters, soft light, and the sourdough jar quietly in place. Two versions of Franzi appear: one dream-bound in the shadows, the other fully real, seated in serene control. Her tail is curled. Her gaze is steady. She has bent the world to her will.

Epilogue – The Ghost of the Dough

The nightmare comes first. I am in the kitchen, but it’s not right. It’s stretched impossibly long, the walls curling like soft dough, and the floor sticky beneath my paws. The air is thick with a sour, yeasty fog. And at the
April 5, 2025
Franzi is doing a research online, quick and dirty- sour dough is toxic for cats

The Sourdough Incident: Part 7 – The Silent Knowledge

I know before anyone else. The knowledge arrives in a quiet moment, a lazy internet search while Mum hums in the kitchen, lovingly feeding her sacred dough. The words are there, stark and straightforward: Sourdough is toxic for cats—the fermentation, the yeast,
April 4, 2025
A surreal kitchen scene transformed into a glowing shrine for sourdough starter jars. Dozens of jars labeled with names like “Crumb Lord” and “Hope” glow eerily on the counter and inside the fridge. A sleek black Oriental Shorthair cat sits atop the fridge, lit by an ominous halo of light, staring down in silent judgment.

The Sourdough Incident: Part 1 – A Dark Force Rises

It started with a jar. Just a jar, they said. Just flour and water. But within days, the kitchen became a shrine, the daily rituals fell apart, and I—the emotional nucleus of this household—was dethroned by something that smelled like sour ambition.
March 22, 2025
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