For years—which, given my tender age of two, is impressive—I have suffered a great injustice. Every birthday, the humans celebrate us, yet somehow, Schmutz always takes center stage. The crooked tail. The dramatic leaps. The way she effortlessly commands attention just by existing in all her accidental, slapstick brilliance.
I, Franzi Katzka, the architect of this household’s stability, the unseen hand ensuring order, have tolerated this for too long.
Not this year.
This year, I win.
Phase One: The Treat Ballet
The day began as it always did—Schmutz sprawled on the floor, stretching like she had all the time in the world while the humans cooed over us.
But this year, I was prepared.
I positioned myself before the treat cabinet, tail elegantly curved into a perfect question mark. A chirp—but softer than usual—as if I weren’t demanding but simply… longing.
Mum melted instantly. “Oh, look at Franzi! She’s asking so sweetly!”
Schmutz, mid-stretch, snapped her head toward me.
Her move. I had stolen her move.
She blinked, her tail twitching in sudden awareness.
The humans showered me in treats.
Schmutz narrowed her eyes. The game had begun.
Phase Two: The Costume Gambit & The 30-Second Law
Mum, high on the thrill of birthday excitement, pulled out The Hat.
Now, let me clarify the 30-Second Law.
- If Schmutz or I wear something and show immediate disgust, the item is removed.
- If we tolerate it for even a moment, Mum is allowed one photo, and then the object is immediately discarded into The Graveyard of Abandoned Cat Things (a purgatory of forgotten accessories that haunt the storage box).
For years, I have refused such indignities. But today, I did the unthinkable.
I let the hat be placed upon my head.
No ear flick. No tail twitch.
Schmutz stared in horror.
Mum, stunned, hesitated. The rule was in effect.
She had exactly one shot.
I struck a pose.
A paw delicately lifted. A gaze into the distance, as if contemplating the impermanence of all things.
Click.
The hat was immediately removed.
It was over.
Schmutz let out an exasperated meow, realizing the magnitude of what had just transpired.
I had won.
Phase Three: The Schmutz Counterattack & The Final Play
Defeated but not broken, Schmutz resorted to her final weapon: chaotic improvisation.
She launched herself into the center of the room, rolling onto her back, paws flailing wildly—an explosive act of reckless charm.
The humans gasped.
The camera turned.
I had one move left.
A last, desperate gambit.
I let out The Whine.
A long, soft, sorrowful whimper—a sound so rarely heard from me that the humans immediately lost their minds.
“Oh my god, Franzi’s whining!” Mum gasped, dropping her phone.
Felix, caught in the crossfire, ran to pick me up.
I melted into him, pressing my forehead against his, purring with the weight of a thousand unsung birthday wishes.
Schmutz watched in silent outrage.
Final Score & The Fate of the Hat
By nightfall, the score had been settled.
- I had consumed double my usual treats.
- I had outmaneuvered Schmutz at every turn.
- And most importantly…
- The Hat was buried.
Yes. That wretched piece of fabric, that symbol of my oppression, had been banished to The Graveyard of Abandoned Cat Things, where it would remain, forgotten, amongst the remains of last year’s bowtie and the sweater incident (which we do not speak of).
Schmutz sulked in the corner. I, victorious, sat regally upon my perch, tail flicking in quiet satisfaction.
This birthday was mine.
And for the first time in my two long, long years of suffering—
I felt seen.
Postscript: The Treaty of Playtime
The next morning, as the sun rose on our now unequal kingdom, Schmutz pushed the teaser toy toward me in what I can only assume was an act of begrudging respect.
I accepted.
Because even the most benevolent rulers allow their subjects a second chance.
