I’m in shock.

I thought I lived in an ordinary house on a serene street in a staid neighborhood where drivers respect the speed limit and stray cats thrive on free handouts.

So, you can imagine my consternation at discovering that I did not, in fact, live in a peaceful residential house, but an unaccredited institution of higher feline learning.

Run by—yes, you guessed it—The Fulsome Four, a.k.a., The Land Sharks.

Apparently, while I have been innocently going about my business—reading, evacuating ants, opening cans of cat food, and otherwise attempting to maintain the illusion that I am in charge—The Fulsome Four have been operating an entire university under my roof.

The courses on offer reside in fluffy clouds and are taught asynchronously, allowing students maximum flexibility to nap according to their own schedules. Although most classes are online, I have been informed that a limited number of in-feline courses are available for local cats.

As for faculty credentials, the less said, the better.

Now, let me show you the course catalog:

Dean Nebula—Department of Sovereignty, Mysticism, and Applied Disdain

Nebula is a white Turkish Angora; Keeper of Timelines and self-proclaimed Cosmic Queen of Everything

Courses:

Mystery as Magnetism: How to Be Unavailable and Still Receive Everything

Doorways to Other Dimensions: Advanced Techniques in Meowing at Nothing

The Power of the Royal No: Boundary Spells for Sovereignty & Style

Bonus: Future Self Activation: Finding the Treat-Maximized Version of Yourself

Professor Newbery—Department of Attachment Theory & Competitive Resource Acquisition

Newbery is a black domestic shorthair; Chaos Agent, Mystic, and Lap Evangelist

Courses:

How to Be Misunderstood but Iconic

Ambivalence and Attachment: Constraints and Considerations in Lap Selection

Paw Strikes and Projectiles: Power Dynamics Behind the Door

Bonus: Was Chairman Mao in Want of a Cat? A Historical Inquiry

Professor Hugo—Department of Contemplative Studies & Conflict Avoidance

Hugo is a champagne Burmese; Sun Prince, Diplocat, and Sommelier of Soft Surfaces.

Courses:

Softness as Strategy: Rolling in Litter Like It’s a Beach Day

Diplomatic Napping: Emotional Regulation for the Overstimulated Soul

Special Effects 101: How to Hinge Like a Haunted Door

Bonus: Bunting for Peace

Assistant Professor Caldecott (Callie)—Department of Enthusiasm, Improvisation, and Unforced Errors

Callie is a gray tabby and not-quite-Maine-Coon look-alike; Movement Minimalist, Greenies Enthusiast, and Gender-Fluid Floof

Courses:

Beginner’s Adoration: How to Love Without Clueing In

Learning the Unspoken Rules You Just Broke: A Survival Guide

Obstruction Studies: Whatever You Do, Don’t Blink

Bonus: Pending departmental approval

You may be feeling better now that you’ve seen the catalog. Or not. At least, you won’t be caught off guard if your cats suddenly start quoting Meow Zedong.

My sincere apologies to those of you whose cats may have fallen prey to the deceptive practices of these aptly nicknamed Land Sharks. Enrollment isn’t optional, so those of you who share a home with cats have probably noticed suspicious charges.

Yes, I agree, the tuition truly is predatory, but refunds are not possible. I do not have access to any of the Land Sharks’ ill-gotten gains, nor do I have a clue where they may have hidden them. Possibly in an unmarked account at a Swiss bank catering to cat cabals.

Oh, no, no, I do not have the personal funds to pay you back. The unauthorized food delivery—for the cats alone—is ruinous.

A few important notes:

This is the course catalog as it stands today. Courses may be discontinued without notice. Substitutions may be made on the spur of the moment.

Enrollment is automatic. Graduation is impossible. The faculty has tenure.

For those of you who have made it this far, congratulations. The university has authorized me—without explaining why—to offer a limited number of auditing opportunities.

Tell me in the comments which course you’d most like to take, and I’ll see what I can do. No guarantees. Admissions decisions appear to be made by knocking objects off a desk.

I meant to write a new Alchemy of Meow dispatch this week. But a cat threw up on my draft (I’m looking at you, Newbery), and the words were unreadable, and the notebook unusable. I generally start by writing long-hand in my notebook, then, when the words come, I turn to the computer.

I tried to write on the computer but—the words appear to have unionized! Who knew such a thing could happen!

So, instead of forcing them onto the page in tiny protest hats, I’m opening the memoir door again. Before Newbery, Hugo, Nebula, and Callie became the four unreliable narrators of this household, there was Lydia—a blind, hearing-impaired cat who could see more clearly than most sighted beings I have known.

Lydia’s Lantern is the book I am writing about her: a record of what remains illuminated after someone we love is gone.

This excerpt is from the opening chapter, “The Cat Who Came Back Through the Clouds.”

I was still ensconced in my treehouse room when, at some point—blurred and unmarked—a new housemate arrived. A short-term rental. Warm, bright, and exuberant, she brought with her a cat named Nyla, a multi-colored beauty. I thought Nyla was the perfect match for her young human.

Nyla was everything Lydia wasn’t: alert, agile, with the glossy sheen of health. She didn’t stumble. She didn’t bonk. She sashayed into rooms like she owned the floor plan.

Almost immediately, she poked into my room, sniffed, and left. Her face peering from under the noren felt like the harbinger of spring. I wondered if she’d stay. She did.

She stayed longer and longer each time until finally, just like Lydia before her, she started to sleep in my room overnight. She stretched out near me, not on top of me the way Lydia did. Apparently, she didn’t intend to steal my breath.

Nyla went down to the basement for meals and the litter box. Sometimes, she’d spend time with her real guardian. But mostly, she spent her time in my room. I worried that the new housemate would object. But she didn’t. She was busy with school and her boyfriend and said she was grateful that Nyla had found a friend.

I was grateful, too.

I made sure to place her name prominently on my daily list of gratitude.

Not only was Nyla free of disabilities, she was an utterly charming, loveable, adoptable cat. She was a cat you could take home to meet your mom.

But Lydia?

She was a visitation.

My mother would say I was out of my mind. Most of the time, I’d say she was right.

Her verdict aside, it happened at last.

Lyda came back.

I don’t remember the moment I learned she’d be returning, but I recall the glorious feeling of my heart soaring like a wild bird freed from its captor. And then the moment after, the unease. Because Nyla was still in the house. In my room. On my futon. Next to my chest.

Her young guardian was due to move out soon, but there would be a short overlap with Lydia. The timing was awkward.

How do you explain emotional squatter’s rights to a blind cat?

Sure enough, Lydia arrived like she always did—unannounced, determined, inevitable. She stepped through the noren curtain, paused, sniffed. I’m sure she smelled the betrayal.

Her fur rose.

Then came the hiss and the growl. Sounds I’d never heard from her before—feral, guttural, ancient.

She leapt.

A full arcing jump with claws outstretched, straight for the interloper.

Or that was the intent.

But she missed completely.

Wildly.

By a mile.

Lydia landed and flailed around, looking bemused, a little confused, as she searched for the intruder, still sputtering with indignation. But her meaning was clear: this space was hers.

Nyla, wide-eyed, frightened, and frozen, just stared like she couldn’t process what had just happened.

Time forgot to breathe.

I stood stunned, caught between the impulse to sweep Lydia in my arms, and the urge to soothe Nyla and reassure her.

Then the spell broke, and sweet Nyla, terrified and confused, scurried away.

Lydia glared at the empty space she’d just conquered. She had made her point. She reclaimed her territory.

Even in failure, Lydia won her battle.

Hugo, my little champagne Burmese, is the best accountability partner I’ve ever had. First, let me tell you how that came about.

An ex-boyfriend mocked me for my inability to do even a single chin-up. That was many, many years ago. Yes, I can be surprisingly good at holding a grudge. Reminds me of a certain cat I know, whose name I’m sure does not rhyme with Incredula. Just saying.

My immediate reaction was to prove him wrong. The only thing is, I didn’t immediately act on my impulse. Let’s just say it took me many, many years and leave it at that. Anyway, I decided that the best way to approach this was to train myself to do dead hangs. I put up a workout bar in the catio right up against a cat tree. It may be the simplest exercise because all you do is dangle, but I could only do it for 10 seconds at most. And before you ridicule me, let me assure you that while my arms may be flaccid, I have very strong legs and can deliver pretty mean kicks.

My next challenge was my inconsistency. I would start a new habit on any day ending in “y,” and fail at the follow-through. I’d do it for one day, two days, a fortnight, a month—and suddenly the habit had become an archaeological site.

There’s a reason why an entire economy has been built on helping individuals cultivate good habits. If reading books doesn’t cut it (hello, Atomic Habits), there are any number of coaches who purport to help. The problem is the cost. Once, when I found an affordable one, I quickly discovered why. I had to keep emailing him to ask him if he would be emailing me to remind me to keep up with my commitment. The buddy system with friends didn’t work much better. Then there are apps that fine you if you don’t meet your commitment: I could easily see our savings draining away.

I couldn’t commit to commit. So I just continued in my haphazard way until one day, Hugo happened to jump up on the cat tree that stands right next to the bar. I hung on for my maximum 10 seconds, then dropped down to stroke him. His face just inches from mine, he gave me a soulful look, showing off his incredibly adorable tooth gap. “Good Hugo,” I exclaimed. “Best Hugo ever.”

His entire face and body radiated joy.

For the first time, the reward for following through wasn’t abstract self-improvement. It was Hugo’s joy.

The next day I returned to the bar, and Hugo returned to the cat tree. And the next day and the next day. It occurred to me that this was now a “thing.” He had signed up as my accountability buddy! John agreed with me.

Hugo has continued this tradition for some five months now. Thanks to him, I now work out daily without missing a single day. Apparently, my nervous system responds better to a delighted Burmese than to threats, fines, and habit literature.

An out-of-town friend visiting me wanted to try out the dead hang to see if Hugo would join her. And he did—he jumped up next to her on cue, though he did appear slightly confused.

I don’t claim that the ritual goes without a hitch. Sometimes Hugo gets distracted and heads to the kitchen instead of the cat tree. Some nights Callie—our faux Maine Coon floof—blocks his path, and Hugo loses his way. I call out for him from the bar. “Focus, Hugo.”

“Hugo, go on over there,” my husband chimes in. “The show must go on, you know that.” After some encouragement, Hugo jumps up on the cat tree. Incredibly—because her name does rhyme with Incredula—our all-white Turkish Angora, Nebula, has appointed herself the task master. She snarls at Callie and occasionally smacks him until he moves out of Hugo’s path, allowing the sacred procession to continue.

Hugo is more consistent than any human (with a little encouragement), doesn’t require a contract, and is cuter than any app. Best of all, he doesn’t bill me.

I have not yet achieved the chin-up, though I can now do a dead hang for an entire minute. Somewhere, my ex is wandering the earth, blissfully unaware that a champagne Burmese with a tooth gap was more motivating than mockery.

Spite may have started the habit, but only Hugo could sustain it.

Hi, I’m Callie. No, I’m Not a Girl.

An origin story involving four veterinarians, one pair of testicles, and absolutely no dignity

Hi. I’m Callie.

Yes, Callie—short for Caldecott.

No, I’m not a girl.

Yes, I know the name sounds as though I am.

No, I don’t want to talk about it.

Okay. Maybe just a little.

Mumstaff and Dadstaff found me at a pet store. They thought they were going out to buy cat food, but instead, they came home with me.

And—uh, excuse me—

Mumstaff would like me to clarify that they also bought the cat food, even though they had to mortgage the house to pay for it.

Anyway.

An employee at the pet store had brought me in. Her mother had found me outside her back door when I was just a tiny kitten, with my face buried in a food bowl she’d left out for her cats.

A natural talent, spotted early.

She took me inside, fed me properly, and even brought me to a veterinarian for a health check. Unfortunately, she said she couldn’t adopt me because she already had seven cats.

As though that were an excuse.

Her daughter, Jasmine, took me to her workplace, which happened to be a large premium pet food store.

Very convenient.

When it comes to sniffing out food, I am a true master.

Jasmine didn’t put me in a cage. She kept me beside the checkout counter where she was working, so I could greet potential servants personally.

Then my humans walked in.

They didn’t take me home immediately, but they called Jasmine that evening and told her they wanted to adopt me. Just in time, too. Right afterward, another woman tried to claim me.

A bidding war was narrowly avoided.

Jasmine delivered me to my new home and passed along what the veterinarian had told her: the kitten was a girl, approximately six weeks old.

Yes. A girl.

Later, Mumstaff and Dadstaff took me to their local veterinarian.

Yes, the veterinarian confirmed. The kitten is a girl.

Still later, I got sick.

According to Mumstaff, I stopped eating and became limp and droopy. The regular veterinarian was away, so we ended up seeing a different one.

“The kitten has a fever,” the veterinarian said. “No idea why. And she has ear mites, so let’s wash her ears.”

“Absolutely not,” Mumstaff said. “We need to get the kitten eating first. Why isn’t she eating?”

“No idea,” the veterinarian said. “Let’s wash her ears.”

Mumstaff turned right around and rushed me to an emergency clinic miles and miles and miles away.

There, the emergency veterinarian examined me and confirmed that I had a slight temperature. He gave me a shot—YEOWWW!—and a pill.

Presto.

My appetite returned.

Then he said, “Oh, by the way, the kitten has testicles. That means he’s a boy.”

“Yes, I’m aware of what testicles mean,” Mumstaff replied. “But three other veterinarians appear to have missed them.”

I don’t understand what relevance any of this had to anything.

I just wanted to go home and nap.

My humans kept the name Callie.

I respect that.

I’m a cat of nuance. I contain multitudes.

And so I completed the Cat Quartet.

I am the youngest cat in the household, the largest in size, and somehow still the most afraid of everything.

My sister Nebula, who is half my size, dominates me like a tiny empress with a mean left hook. She smacks me merely for breathing in an unauthorized manner.

I don’t fight back.

I spin around, cringe, and silently question the series of choices that brought me to this moment.

Mumstaff laughs at me for being a scaredy-cat, but look at the word.

It’s a job description.

I’m afraid of hats. Swishy skirts. Sudden noises. And any suspicious-looking character who appears unexpectedly.

Like Dadstaff making coffee downstairs.

I freeze on the stairs, stare at Mumstaff, and ask with my eyes:

“Who is that man?”

“It’s Dad,” she says.

I remain unconvinced, but I tiptoe downstairs like a suspicious marshmallow.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

And sometimes Mumstaff has laid out kitty treats.

I chase birds who somehow wriggle their way into the catio. But even in the middle of a hunt, I allow Mumstaff to pick me up and carry me inside.

Because deep down, I’m still a lap kitten who grew too big for his britches.

I’m trying my best.

I’m simply not sure who anyone is or what is happening most of the time.

But I know this:

I am loved.

And I am doing my weird little best.

Yours anxiously but adorably,

Callie

Movement Minimalist
Gender-Fluid Floof
Greenie Enthusiast

Silence, please. I am speaking.

Actually—strike that. I prefer chaos. Preferably before sunrise.

My name is Nebula. I’m a Turkish Angora, which means I am the cosmic queen of everything, an ancient spirit trapped in a cloud of white fur. In Turkey, where our breed originates from, we are considered a national treasure. Frankly, the currency should feature my face.

Yes, I was christened after the Nebula Award, but I think they named it after me.

Some say I am aloof. That is a matter of opinion. I have no need for your laps. I chose my human, the one who laboriously types up my decrees. All other humans inside or outside the household are unpaid extras in my intergalactic biopic. You may admire me from afar. Send me tributes of treats and compliments, and I may purrchance put in a good word to the celestial goddess.

It is a matter of great importance to me that the humans of this household not miss out on matters of great importance by snoozing away their destiny. If they are sleeping past 5.59 a.m., I slam the bedroom door repeatedly. Sometimes I start at 5:00, because complacency is the enemy of spiritual growth.”

Enlightenment begins with movement. Preferably the sound of a regal thump against a hollow bedroom door.

But I do not only haunt the mornings.

No, I also bring ecstatic wisdom at night. In the still hours when dreams seep through the veil, I enter a trance state. I meow, I purr, I rub, I bash. My chosen human calls it my “ecstasy mode.” I call it divine recalibration. You see a cat aggressive-purring; I see an aggressive cosmic download transferring directly into your skull via forehead bonk.

I do not ask why. I just am.

Despite being adopted as a tribute to Lydia (a blind Turkish Angora mix), I share none of her personality—except for this midnight rapture. The humans think it’s a Turkish Angora thing. I think it’s a goddess thing.

You ask why I don’t mingle with the other cats? Darling, I rule them. Obviously. I smack them randomly at odd moments to keep them on their paws. Someone has to maintain the hierarchy, and the others lack the vision.”

And now, for a bit of cosmic wisdom, free of charge:

Stop waiting for permission to sparkle. You don’t need outside validation. You just need one mirror and a belief that you are, in fact, a cosmic event. Be the meteor. Be the moon. Be the door-slam at dawn.

Yours from the stars,
Nebula

My name is Hugo.

Yes, that Hugo—named after the Hugo Awards, as any self-respecting literary cat should be. I am what they call a champagne Burmese. I prefer “caramel cloud of excellence,” but I don’t insist.

Let me make one thing clear: I did not ask to be perfect. I was born into it.

My father was a champion. His name was Spencer, and he peed on things professionally.

My breeder gave my humans the choice of picking either me or my brother, who was slated to be the next stud. But the stars aligned, and they decided that I was much the handsomer of the two. They have discerning taste.

I was a gift from their former sister-in-law, a benevolent soul who discovered the joys of feline ownership later in life. It was her attempt to assuage their grief over losing their previous cat, Mittens, a half-Siamese lady of impeccable manners. A royal dowry, really.

It warms the cockles of my heart to hear such tails—I mean tales—of human kindness.

Today, I live a life of balanced diplomacy. If I deign to go to bed with my humans at night, I split my affection evenly between them: half the time with Dad Staff on his side of the bed, half the time with Mum Staff on hers.

You may think that’s adorable. It is. But it’s also strategy. Everyone feels loved. No one gets jealous. World peace starts with a cuddle schedule.

The humans have characterized me as a “sommelier of surfaces” because I am a connoisseur of all things bedding-related. I proudly test various textures and sleeping surfaces for my napping needs. My current favorite is the hammock next to Mum Staff’s office window.

I am the most emotionally stable cat in this household, which—as any indoor cat will tell you—is a full-time job. I mediate disputes. I model proper greeting behavior for guests. I inspect the work of visiting electricians. I am the emotional support animal for the other emotional support animals.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that my ministrations do not always work. There is one cat who appears immune to my considerable charm. I think you can guess who that is. Her name rhymes with “Incredula.”

And last, though not least, I am humble. Extremely so.

I did not point out that my early aloofness was mistaken for introversion when, in fact, I was simply adjusting to the startling disorganization in this house.

I did not demand tribute when my humans discovered—purely by accident—that I shared a lineage with Abigail, the beloved Burmese owned by my Mum Staff’s former therapist. I simply blinked slowly and allowed them to marvel at fate.

I did not even complain when they gave me a theme song as sugary as “Mr. Sandman” by The Chordettes. I am a dreamboat, it’s true—but that’s not all I am.

I am grace. I am softness. I am the pause before pounce.

I am Hugo, and I approve this message.

Your affectionate ambassador,

Hugo
Champion-Blooded Charm
Diplomatic Dreamboat
Certified Guest Inspector

I originally launched this newsletter under a pen name with a grand plan.

Then I took a one—or was it two?—month break, realized I was overcomplicating everything, and decided to just use my real name.

Hi. I’m Cherryl.

Behind the scenes, I was working on a deeper writing project and got creatively singed around the edges. I thought about writing a big “we’re back” essay explaining where I’ve been and what I’ve learned about productivity, trauma, healing, and the dangers of turning every life transition into a twelve-part content strategy.

But the cats informed me that my aura was rumpled, my branding was off, and nobody cares about my human agenda.

They insisted on doing the introductions themselves.

Since they never concede, I did.

Over the next few weeks, the Fulsome Foursome will be introducing themselves on their own terms.

First up is the pocket panther who runs this house:

Newbery.

Paws & Reflect

Dear Humans,

I wasn’t always a writer.

I began life on the streets of San Jose, unnamed and unloved, until I was plucked from fate’s linty pocket and deposited into a cage with a respiratory infection and a whole lot of attitude.

Some might say I whacked my future dad in the face to get adopted.

I call it editorial influence.

What I did not do was hustle my way to a new home. I did not visualize. I did not journal. I did not optimize my rescue funnel.

I simply aligned myself with who I was.

Small. Black. Opinionated. Extremely adoptable to those with taste.

And sure enough, the right humans showed up.

The fools.

They were so besotted, they took me home straightaway. The first thing they did was toss out the shelter name someone had slapped on me.

Violet.

I mean, honestly.

They bestowed upon me the name Newbery, after a literary award.

No pressure.

(Note: Only one “r,” thank you. Autocorrect has tried to sabotage my legacy, but I remain undiminished.)

These days, I am the household’s Lap-Seeking Evangelist, the Gratitude Queen, and, I would argue, the spiritual anchor of this entire operation.

The purebreds may act like they descended from royalty, but let’s be honest.

When the kibble hits the bowl, who weaves between legs in gratitude?

Who sings the song of her people in three-part meows?

Who risks broccoli ingestion just to prove a point?

This girl.

Let me tell you what we’ll be doing here at Alchemy of Meow.

At semi-regular intervals, one of us cats—or two, or three, or four, depending on who has seized the editorial throne—will deliver cosmic insights, emotional commentary, or really solid advice on surviving the human condition with flair.

Some of it will be funny.

Some of it will be profound.

All of it will be at least slightly fur-covered.

Today’s meow-nifestation mantra is this:

You can start aloof, but don’t forget to purr when the moment is right.

It is okay if you are still warming up to joy.

It is okay if you do not trust it yet.

Take your time.

But when the warmth comes, curl into it like it is your birthright.

It probably is.

Paw-sitively yours,
Newbery
Lap Evangelist
Gratitude Queen
Worrier Warrior

Alchemy of Meow is still here. I am still here. The cats remain unpaid consultants with strong opinions.

More soon!

Two animatronic donkeys facing off each other on a podium at the entryway of a store in a shopping mall. Stepping into the store, you’ll find a kinetic life-sized robot of an elderly woman sitting on a bench half asleep, and her backstory introduced through a series of surreal, high-definition video loops. It hums with the confidence of a sci-fi future that has already decided you are underdressed. With its sleek-chic aesthetic of a modern art installation, it’s not immediately obvious what the store offers. The name “Gentle Monster” doesn’t provide a ready clue

Can you venture a guess as to what the store sells?

Some of you may already know the answer.

Yes, of course, in hindsight it was completely obvious. (Not.)

They traffic in: high-end sunglasses.

Naturally.

Ultra trendy—and priced accordingly—sunglasses are discreetly displayed on spotless glass shelves. The diametric opposite of in-your-face marketing.

Before I could figure out what timeline I’d accidentally entered, the Alchemy Cats, a.k.a., the Fulsome Foursome, had already taken over and assumed new identities as high-end sunglass sales-beasts. Their mission: to embody the sacred oxymoron of the brand—Gentle Monster.

But naturally, they rebranded themselves:

The Beautiful Monsters

“We hiss in high fashion. We purr in persuasion.”

Cast of Characters (from oldest to youngest)

Newbery: Inventory Sorceress

She cares nothing about sunglasses. Or customers. Or sales. Or noise. Or anything that triggers her. Which is to say, everything. She guards the inventory shrine with unmatched ferocity.

She’s come to the store with zero preparation, having shredded the required textbooks on marketing psychology. Insists that whatever she needs to know, she learned on the mean streets of San Jose.

Hugo: Store Mascot and Manager

Has made a serious study of retail psychology. His anime-large eyes will stare into your face, bypassing logic, awakening dormant desire and—you will walk out with a pair of expensive sunglasses without knowing why.

He bunts every customer within reach of the store. And some out of reach. Tests local gravity occasionally by knocking down sunglasses.

Nebula: Brand Oracle

Studied consumer psychology extensively. Wears limited-edition mirrored shades. She doesn’t sell; she selects. If she finds your frequency misaligned with her fur, she will flick her tail with the finality of a guillotine. Her gift is to intimidate customers into buying the sunglasses just to prove their worth.

Caldecott, a.k.a. Callie: The ambivalent intern

Read as many books as he could on sales and marketing. Which is to say, none. Never shows up on time. Spends most of his shift snoozing on designer display pedestals, occasionally falling off. Oddly, customers adore him. When not napping, shadows customers so closely, they inevitably step on him, triggering a wounded kitten look. Every customer ends up buying a pair of sunglasses.

Customers walk out of the store feeling chosen (mostly), judged, and slightly haunted.

Yelp Review:

I came in for sunglasses. I left with a bag full of epiphanies—and my wallet in interdimensional space.

Customer FAQ

Because you asked. Or we sensed you would.

Q: Why did one of the cats stare at me for an inordinately long time?

A: That was Nebula. She was checking your karmic debt.

Q: I felt slightly judged when I walked in. Is that normal?

A: Completely. It’s a feature of the brand architecture, not a bug.

Q: Why do I suddenly want sunglasses that I wasn’t planning to buy?

A: This is known as resonant alignment. Or Hugo. Usually Hugo.

Q: One cat lay directly on the display I was browsing. Is that allowed?

A: Encouraged.

That was Callie. Products he endorses touch the beginner’s mind.

Q: I dropped a pair of sunglasses and felt ashamed.

A: Growth often begins with gravity.

Q: Why do I feel like I’ve been spiritually appraised?

A: Because you have been. It’s all a mirror.

Q: I discovered that a screw was missing from my sunglasses. What should I do?

A: A missing screw is a koan. If you insist on resolution, we can arrange for the pair to be shipped back to Korea for screw installation.

Q: Can I return the sunglasses if they don’t suit me?

A: All our purchases come with a full money non-refundable guarantee.

You may keep the insight.

Q: Am I allowed to leave without buying anything?

A: Of course. But you won’t.

Thank you for visiting Beautiful Monsters.

And remember, retail is a mirror. We don’t sell style. We radiate it. You just happened to stumble into the field.

Cats are Japanese.
Not literally, of course.

Why do I say this?

Not because of Japan’s cat cafés (though you should absolutely visit one if you can), Hello Kitty (who, by the way, Sanrio insists is NOT a cat), or even the Japanese cult of kawaii (cute).

Cats embody a quality often celebrated in Japanese aesthetics. That is to say, the qualities of restraint, suggestion, of ma, a Japanese word often translated as gap, space, interval, pause.

Ma is not empty. It’s not nothing.
It’s alive with potential, tension, and relationship.

It’s the meaningful space between things. What’s not said carries weight. Silence becomes part of the message.

Ma is the pause between musical notes; the silence in conversations; the empty space in paintings.

It’s the stillness between stimulus and response, the breath between actions.

Western thinking demands:
“What is there?”

Ma inquires:
“What is happening in between?”

That, dear reader, is where meaning lives.

And where cats live.

They are liminal creatures, existing in the in-between.
Not fully here, not fully there, but always always where they want to be.

You might say that cats and Japanese culture share an unspoken agreement:
Meaning doesn’t need to shout. (Unless you’re Nebula, my white Turkish Angora. In which case, meaning absolutely does shout, caterwaul, and demand immediate acknowledgment at all hours.)

Japanese communication often leaves space for meaning to emerge, rather than relying on loud decree, on spelling everything out. What’s valued is context, tone, and relationship—not blunt declaration.

All these are generalities, of course. But as someone whose work entailed bridging the gap between Americans and Japanese, I can state unequivocally that each culture has its own dominant communication style.

Cats, who embody this gap, are often misunderstood.

They’re called aloof. Independent. Not affectionate.

But that’s only if you’re expecting them to communicate like dogs.

For a cat, sitting three feet away is an act of intimacy.
Especially if they’re facing away from you. (I’ve read this is considered polite in cat language.)

Distance doesn’t dissipate the bond.
Silence doesn’t erase connection.

With cats, communication lives in subtleties.

A twitch of the ear can be the equivalent of an annotated religious text; the flick of a tail, an entire dissertation.

Cats don’t explain themselves.

Like the best poetry, they are ambiguous. They don’t resolve. They expect you to feel your way through.

All this is to say that your cat might be the most Japanese creature in your house. Your cat may, in fact, be the only one who truly understands the space between things.

And has been trying, patiently, to teach you.

If you’ve ever wondered why your cat sits just out of reach…
it might not be distance.

It might be ma.

Or, if you’re Nebula, my aforementioned cat—it just might be spite.

Before there were four cats ruling my household, there was another cat, a blind albino, hearing-impaired Turkish Angora mix.

I’ve been working on a memoir about her, Lydia, and occasionally I’ll share small fragments here. This is the moment I said good-bye to her, not knowing the story wasn’t over:

I never thought I’d get Lydia back. Not after five years. Not when she had never been mine to begin with.

She was my former housemate’s sister’s cat, a relationship twice removed, the kind that should not leave a mark.

When I bade goodbye to Lydia the last time I visited her, it was an ordinary day in Colorado, the air thin, the light bright, the mountains quietly watching.

As I struggled with my hiking boots, Lydia sat in the foyer, her unseeing, milky-blue eyes turned towards me.

“Lydia,” I said, speaking loud and clear so that, even with her hearing impairment, she might register my voice. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to come see you anymore. I’m leaving for California.”

The puzzled expression never left her face. Her pink nose sniffled.

I reached over and stroked her, blinking back tears. She pressed her head against my open palm.

I straightened myself, and with a final glance back, I closed the door, stepped outside, and made a wish. Not on a star, but on the wind that caressed my face, then let the wish go like a leaf on a stream, one small thought among the countless that crossed my mind as I prepared for my trip.

And now here it was, years later, long after I’d forgotten it. The wish had boomeranged its way back to me.

Something strange has been happening in the household.

We’ve noticed the signs.

Suspicious amounts of coffee. Sighs.

Guzzling coffee, then washing it down with tea, followed by a coffee chaser. That faraway look humans get when they’ve taken flight from the present.

We’ve been trying to call Mumstaff back.

Newbery chewed up the manuscripts on her desk. Nebula sat on her right arm so she couldn’t type. Hugo walked across the keyboard. Callie covered up the screen with his furry bulk.

We assumed the writing project would end there.

And yet, she remains undeterred.

For weeks now, she’s been hunched over that glowing rectangle, typing out the life of Lydia.

Ah, yes. Lydia. The Shadow-Queen of the Before Times. The one who ruled this realm before our paws ever graced the hardwood. Legend has it she couldn’t even see and still managed to command more respect and attention than all four of us combined.

We’re not bitter about it.

Much.

Mumstaff says since yesterday was the Lantern Festival, this is the perfect time.

For what? More food?

We vote yes.

No, she says. The Lantern Festival signifies the closing of the Lunar New Year celebrations—and it’s a symbolic bridge into the year ahead.

The idea is that it’s a time to release the past and step into a bright future. A time for peace and forgiveness and unity.

All things we cats have been trying to teach humans for millennia.

(You’re welcome.)

She says that last night she didn’t hang real lanterns because “fire hazard” and “cats” don’t mix well.

(Don’t blame us. We would’ve been fine.)

What she is lighting, she says, is a different kind of lantern.

A memoir called Lydia’s Lantern.

It helps her let go of the sharp-edged part of missing Lydia and transform it into a steady glow of remembrance.

She’s clearing the path.

This is Lydia’s bridge.

She’s crossing it with aplomb (hopefully, if she doesn’t fall off because she can’t see and all), probably judging our current napping form.

(Mumstaff insists Lydia was not that kind of cat. She says Lydia was sweet, accepting, and unconditionally loving—not judgy like us.)

Whatever.

The point is, Mumstaff built this bridge as a transition from private ache to an open celebration of a life that will always matter.

What this means for you is that Mumstaff will occasionally share excerpts from the memoir in these pages.

Think of them as dispatches from the Before Times, delivered by a blind cat who could see more clearly than most sighted beings.

If Lydia’s story reaches you, we suspect she meant it to.

We current cats are fine with this arrangement.

Mostly.

As long as Mumstaff doesn’t forget who’s currently in charge of the lap space.

And the Greenies keep flowing.

We’re willing to share the spotlight.

Temporarily.

Today is the Lantern Festival. It arrives not at the beginning, but at the soft close of New Year’s closing.

The cats understand the timing perfectly. As they do everything.

The Lantern Festival is not about becoming brighter. It’s about letting the right things glow. Like the eyes of a cat.

Have you prepared a lantern to mark the occasion? If you haven’t, you can simply imagine setting the lantern afloat in a body of water tonight. Not to send wishes into the future, but to honor what has carried you this far.

Let go the past—set free the year that asked too much;

A worry that you’ve carried too far;

A version of yourself that tried too hard.

The cats won’t rush you. They’ll sit with you as the lantern drifts away.

May you step into a bright future, may you have peace and forgiveness and unity.

May your past illuminate your future without singeing your whiskers.

Happy Lantern Festival!

Why is the cat missing from the Chinese Zodiac? In the 12-year cycle based on the lunar calendar, the first year is the rat, followed by the ox, tiger, rabbit, and so on. Each year is represented by an animal with specific personality traits.

Legend says that the Jade Emperor invited animals to a race. The first 12 animals to cross a fast-flowing river and reach his palace would have a year named after them in the zodiac. But the rat tricked the cat into missing the race entirely. The rat also tricked the ox by either stealing a ride or convincing the ox to carry it across the river, then jumping off the ox’s back to claim first place.

The cats of Alchemy of Meow would like to clarify something.

The story is preposterous, they say.

A smear campaign.

The cats were not late; they were not forgotten.

They declined.

Cats do not arrive breathless, asking, “Did I make it?” They do not enter races on command. (Nor would they ever fall for the rat’s conniving ways. Aware of the rat’s trickster nature, they hunt them down.)

Instead of competing, the cats chose to nap. Cats are not interested in hierarchy. They do not rush across rivers for titles. They arrive when the room is ready.

Cats are not signs.

They are witnesses.

They sit outside the system, observing how power circulates. They see how ambition exhausts itself, how cycles repeat, whether anyone learns from them or not.

Newbery, the social justice activist cat, knows what it is to exist just beyond the official story. To be lost on the streets, to be uncounted.

She knows this is a position of power.

Hugo, the Burmese sun price believes the zodiac serves a purpose. The stories help humans connect to animals and remember themselves.

Nebula, the Cosmic Queen, says, if you must compete for titles, you have debased yourself.

Callie, the gender-fluid faux Maine Coon, has tried to memorize the zodiac and failed. He believes every year is the Year of Snacks, with minor variations.

Here is the truth the cats wish to record in the margins of the zodiac:

Some beings are not here to be categorized. Some are here to observe.

If you have ever felt out of step with timelines, unrepresented by archetypes, or unmoved by the pressure to define yourself neatly—

Congratulations, you may be operating on Cat Time.

Cat time is not measured in years. It is measured in thresholds crossed quietly.

In instincts trusted.

In moments of knowing when to stay. And when to leave without apology.

The zodiac turns.

The years parade past.

And somewhere just outside the official chart, the cats sit calmly, tails wrapped around their paws, watching it all with mild interest.

They have never needed a sign to know who they are.

The cats were up. They didn’t care about my resolutions. They barely cared about the Gregorian calendar. They just wanted breakfast.

They woke up with opinions, as always. They don’t care if it’s regular New Year’s Day or Lunar New Year’s Day. They don’t care if I woke up with goals and five-year project plans, or that I intended to haul myself back up on the wagon of resolutions I made (or, come to think, I didn’t make, since I was following my cats’ advice).

According to the Western calendar, we’ve already been two months into the year of the Fire Horse. But take a look at the lunar New Year, and you’ll see that the wild horse has just galloped in, brimming with fire, and that the snake is slithering out.

Before we even got to have our first cup of java, and before we could declare a theme for the year or vow to do seven rounds of 25 Hindu squats and 15 Hindu push-ups a day, the cats have already conducted their opening ceremony:

The Sonic Boom (Nebula): Has initiated the festivities by body-slamming the bedroom door.

The Clearing of the Sacred Space (Hugo): Has meticulously swiped my pens and a flying squirrel figurine off my desk.

The Vocal Manifestation (Newbery): Has begun a high-decibel protest, demanding breakfast with the righteous indignation of someone who has been betrayed by the clock across three lifetimes.

The Interdimensional Download (Callie): Has achieved a state of total stillness, staring into the middle distance. He is clearly hopping through parallel universes while his physical vessel remains anchored to the rug.

And this, according to the cats, is how a year should begin.

No resolutions. No revolutions. No reinventions.

Just a continuation of being exactly who you are—confidently, loudly, and slightly sideways.

Newbery, shimmying her tail, observes quietly. She knows that beginnings may tread softly, hoping not to be startled. Rather like a cat.

Hugo negotiates the terms of the year with remarkable optimism. He believes most things can be resolved with hand-licks, head-bunts, and close proximity. He’s not wrong.

Nebula conducts a brief but firm inspection of the household energy. With supreme confidence, she determines she has maintained sovereignty across timelines and interdimensional space. She rejects desperation as want of confidence.

Callie, having forgotten that time exists, assumes it is a normal day and also a special day, and most probably certainly dinner time. This feels philosophically sound.

The cats would like you to know that:

You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to arrive polished. You don’t need a 7-part pre-breakfast workout plan.

You are allowed to enter the year the way cats enter rooms:

Alert

Curious

Unconcerned with proving anything

Ready to leave if the vibes are off.

So, if you do anything today, let it be this:

Claim your space.

Stretch your body.

The cats are watching.

They are rooting for you.

Happy Chinese New Year!

May it find you resting—and mildly amused.

The morning began with drizzling rain, a liver-cleansing chant, and a cat excusing himself from what I can only assume was a cloud of flying psychic shrapnel.

I’ve been practicing qigong every morning for several weeks now. Most days, I go out to the backyard. But today, it was raining, so I stayed indoors and joined a Zoom class on my laptop, doing the session in the kitchen in front of my sunshine-simulating light box.

The cats, having polished off breakfast, wandered off—except for Callie, who assumed his usual perch beneath my chair, the way a monk might return to his mat.

It’s an hour-long class, and near the end, we did the healing sounds. In Traditional Chinese Medicine, the liver is associated with anger, and the sound “Gong” is used to release it. As I chanted—loudly and repeatedly—Callie, the Movement Minimalist, who had been still and quiet under my chair, did something surprising.

He rose and brushed lightly against my leg. A silent check-in.

Then, as if politely excusing himself from the room due to excessive psychic turbulence, he moved to the threshold and stood watch like a small gray sentinel, his back straight, gaze alert.

Later, as we transitioned into breathing the color red into the heart, Callie returned. He settled beneath my chair once more, like a guardian reclaiming his post—as if he sensed that the rage had transmuted into something softer. Maybe even love.

After class, I sat down with breakfast and coffee.

That’s when Nebula arrived.

She tapped my thigh with one paw. Gently. Almost shyly. A kittenish gesture from a cat who normally carries herself like a celestial empress. She climbed into my lap and settled in, half-lidded eyes serene, paws tucked neatly beneath her like a nun folding her hands in prayer.

For a brief, glowing moment, I truly believed she had joined a religious order. Sister Nebula.

But then I remembered: this was the same creature who whacks Callie multiple times a day. Who occasionally grabs him in a headlock.

So what order is this, exactly?

The Radiant Clawstice of the Perpetual Smack?

A tiny, exclusive sect headquartered in my house. Membership: one. Famous for its strict vows of:

• Radiant Solitude (the other cats avoid her)

• Sacred Whappage (administered swiftly, without personal animus)

• Cream Cheese and Yogurt Communion (single-cat servings only)

Callie watches the energy field. Nebula enforces it. And me? I just try to finish my coffee before one of them stages a coup d’état over my lap.

Welcome to my home—where healing is sacred, smacks are instructional, and the contemplative life sometimes has claws.

Addendum: Teaching from the Radiant Clawstice

Callie’s lesson: Silent witness, energetic empathy, and precise timing.

Where in your life are you learning by quiet proximity, not performance?

What emotional field are you currently standing at the edge of?

Lessons from Nebula?

Discipline with clarity and rest with conviction. Choose your companions with impeccable discernment.

Don’t second-guess your instincts.

By the Dreamweavers (no relationship to the web development tool) a.k.a. the Cat Quartet (not a musical band), a.k.a. the Fulsome Foursome (finally, the true appellation, if not apparition)

Greetings, human.

You struggle with mornings, yes? We can tell. Your aura is rumpled.

Newbery: It could use some puncture marks. I can help you.

Hugo: I could bunt it into shape or snooze on it for you.

Nebula: My disciplinary whacks should definitely smooth it out.

Callie: I can pin it down with my bodyweight.

Without further ado, to diagnose the precise flavor of your dysfunction, please take the following quiz. Answer honestly. We already know you’re lying.

For each question, choose the option that most matches your behavior. At the end, consult your Misalignment Archetype, which we have curated with benevolent judgment.

1. Your alarm goes off. You….

A. Shoot upright like a traumatized meerkat and sprint toward the day.

B. Hit snooze, groan, and negotiate with reality.

C. Lie still, hoping consciousness bypasses you entirely.

D. Don’t use alarms. You rise when destiny commands, or when a cat sits on your bladder.

2. Your first thought of the morning is….

A. I had a dream that showed me more ways I could lead my team to glory!

B. Did Joe Dispenza say I should forget my identity first thing in the morning?

C. Where am I? Who am I? Why am I?

D. I am a spiritual being having a human experience.

3. Your breakfast style is….

A. Protein shake optimized for mitochondria.

B. Scarf down whatever you can scrounge from the fridge while driving one-handed.

C. Holy cow! No time for burgers or bacon. I’m a newly initiated breatharian.

D. A curated ceremony involving spices, symbolism, and possibly an oracle card.

4. When a task appears, your energy response is….

A. Charge forward like you’re gagging hairballs.

B. Roll around internally and externally before starting.

C. Collapse into existential dread and doomscroll on your phone.

D. Await the whisper of inner guidance while doing crunches.

5. Your relationship with mornings overall is…

A. Functional, if slightly manic, like a cat who’s spotted a fly.

B. Oh, the soul! In deshabille.

C. Deranged. Absolutely deranged.

D. Sacred, complicated, cosmically choreographed.

6. When your cat (whose pronouns are “they” and “them”) demands attention at 5 a.m., you….

A. Rise instantly and feed them.

B. Hug them tightly and then push them away.

C. Mutter, “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.”

D. Assume they are delivering a spiritual message and record their meows.

7. Your morning aesthetic is….

A. Silicon Valley efficiency cyborg.

B. Disheveled woodland creature.

C. Victorian ghost wandering the halls.

D. Local mystic who glows faintly before noon.

8. Your ideal morning involves…

A. Believing six impossible things before breakfast.

B. Stretching and disappearing the cat.

C. Going back to bed.

D. A ritual that opens portals and shifts timelines.

Results

Count the letter you chose most often.

Mostly A: The overcaffeinated sun soldier

You fling into mornings like they’re a battlefield. You’ve ingested Silicon Valley’s hustle culture. You confuse adrenaline with purpose. You are deeply misaligned because you believe productivity is a personality.

Prescription: Stop, stare at a wall and contemplate the absurdity of existence

Mostly B: The snooze button aficionado

You negotiate your awakenings like it’s a peace treaty. Your body wants the sloth mode while your brain craves dopamine hits.

Recommendation: A formal morning truce ceremony and drinking from the water faucet

Mostly C: The existential pillow creature

You resent the morning for being a mortal construct. Your soul leaves your body at night and takes its time coming home. We salute your philosophical despair.

Prescription: Sunlight, warm beverages, and possibly reincarnation, if not incarceration.

Mostly D: The mystic of the nonlinear dawn

You refuse to wake up until your inner timing says “yes.” You are ruled by intuition, portals, and subtle energy drafts. You are not misaligned—you are simply incompatible with capitalism.

Suggestion: You be you. You may be on your way to reincarnation as a cat.

Closing remarks by the Fabulous Foursome (when did they change their name?)

Humans attempt to “fix” mornings as if mornings are broken. They are not. You are simply not living as the cosmic creature you are.

If you’d like, we can design a Morning Ritual tailored (if not tailed) to your archetype. It will definitely involve glamor, refusal, and dramatic stretches.

The Alchemy of Meow

Welcome to TEDxLivingRoomRug

Presented by Hugo, the Burmese Feline Philosopher & Diplocat

[Curtains part. A spotlight hits a modest patch of sunbeam. Hugo steps up to the podium, tail held high, champagne fur sleek and shiny. He clears his throat once, dramatically.]

Thank you. I come bearing good tidings. But first, the bad news. Let me tell you. You’ve been lied to. There is a conspiracy afoot—or rather, underpaw. They—yes, “they,” we all know who that means—told you that the litter box was a necessary evil. Nothing but a utilitarian pit stop. A place to dump, if you will, not to delight.

But I am telling you, it is more than that, way, way more. Because I….I have rolled in the sand. I have wallowed in there.

I have fancied myself frolicking in pristine Caribbean sands and emerged transcendent.

My friends. What if I told you the litter box is your personal beach, a spa for the soul. What if the place society told you to disdain was actually your own personal sanctuary, the very seat of your rebirth?

Yes. [pause for effect]

Oh, a quick disclaimer. I wait until the, ahem, the deposits and the wet spots get all scooped up. I have standards. But what I don’t do? Hesitate. I don’t wait for ocean waves to rise or for the human to leave me to my cogitations. I seize the moment. No dawdling for perfection.

So, let me ask you this: when was the last time you played somewhere that others deemed inappropriate? When did you last look at something grimy and say, “Yes, yes, I shall frolic here.”

I didn’t wait for pristine conditions—well, except as noted. I didn’t demand rose petals. I dove right in. Because joy is not about what’s pristine, not about what others deem correct.

Joy is about permission. To be ridiculous. To be present. To find pleasure in a place no one else thought to look.

Reframe the box. It’s not a trap, it’s a portal.

Your version of the litter box might be:

A traffic jam—while idling, you might pen a note to your humans telling them how much you love them—and would it kill them to include a greenie or two with each meal?

Your teenager’s messy room—treat it as your personal treasure hunt or an archaeological dig while you clean.

A cosmic middle finger from the universe—return it with interest, then wallow until you burst into joy,

So the next time life hands you something unglamorous, I urge you:

Wriggle into it. Make it your spa.

Don’t sulk. Sprawl instead! Actively seek out fun! Let the moment dust your fur.

I leave you with this truth, one paw on my heart:

Where others see waste, I find wonder. Where others hold their nose, I boogie down. The world isn’t dirty. It’s rich. It’s raw. It’s waiting.

I encourage you all to just roll with it, literally and metaphorically.

And leave your pawprints on the unexpected.

I love you all.

Thank you.

And they have no parts for it. No parts! Not for the atom accelerator, not for the relativity differentiator. Absolutely nothing for the quantum teabag stabilizer, either. The technician just shook their head solemnly and muttered, “Time’s broken. Again.”

So if he couldn’t leave yesterday, clearly today is also out of the question. Temporal causality is a delicate beast.

The cats, the Fulsome Four (also known in certain circles as the Land Sharks or Sharkies), are no help either. They’ve informed us, quite firmly, that they are severely sleep deprived, having only clocked 22 hours and 42 minutes of slumber. They must therefore catch up on lost sleep immediately and will not be available for appointments, consultations, or lectures until further notice.

So, dear readers, that’s all I’ve got for today.

Please blame the cats. Or time. Or tea (or lack thereof). Definitely not me.

I was gone perhaps ten minutes. Apparently, that was nine minutes too long.

When I returned, my husband John (also: part-time barista, full-time litter box scooper, and general peacekeeper) informed me that Nebula had seized the moment of my absence to enforce some ancient and unknowable code of conduct. He had not, he said with the weary tone of a man who has learned his limits, been able to intervene in time.

The full extent of the chaos, as he reported it, went like this:

Nebula—our self-appointed Cosmic Queen of Everything—had taken it upon herself to keep the other cats in line. You couldn’t quite say she was restoring order, since nothing had been out of order. All the cats had been peacefully minding their own business. But Nebula, ever sensitive to shifts in the atmospheric fabric of reality, can sense brewing disorder in the way dust motes float. And so she made the supreme sacrifice for the sake of the Feline Kingdom: she dispensed justice.

First: Newbery.

Newbery is our black cat, the oldest, the first to join our household. You might call her the rightful leader. Nebula does not. Mere chronology means nothing to the Timekeeper. Besides, Newbery’s temperament disqualifies her from command. She’s the most easily agitated cat in the house, all defense and no offense, which ensures that instead of top cat, she remains perpetually bottom cat.

And yet—perhaps out of sisterhood—Newbery is the only cat Nebula does not actively smack down. The most she’ll do is place her mouth against the back of Newbery’s neck and pursue her, relentlessly, across the house. But she doesn’t bite. It’s clearly a play for dominance, but with a ceiling.

This morning, though, she didn’t even do that.

She raised her paw high. Eyes wide. Mouth agape but silent, like a feline oracle mid-vision.

Newbery, sighing the sigh of one who has been here before, lifted her own paw in return.

The two regarded each other in complete silence. Then, like two swordswomen parting after an honorable draw, they turned and walked away.

Respect maintained. Message received. It was ceremonial. A ritual. No claws. No harm. Just principle.

Next: Hugo.

Hugo is our resident Diplocat and Sun Prince, champagne-colored and unbothered. His father was a champion, and Nebula accords him a modicum of respect for that alone. The operative word being modicum.

Hugo is a cat for whom the word “nonchalant” was invented. He rolls in clean litter like it’s a beach. He greets visitors with emotional neutrality and mild curiosity. He has never done a single thing wrong.

And yet he draws the wrath of the feline girls. Newbery regularly kicks him out of the bed they share.

Nebula charges at him when Callie isn’t readily available. Possibly because, in the minds of the girls, all males require periodic correction.

Today was not Hugo’s lucky day.

Even though Callie was within paw’s reach, Nebula chose Hugo. She whacked him. Then whacked him again. Then whacked him a third time for good measure.

He looked puzzled, as always. Newbery’s aggression makes a certain sense—she’s older, was here first, has seniority to defend. But Nebula? She arrived after Hugo, as a kitten herself. Yet she acts like the matriarch.

But why? Hugo seems to ask with his eyes. He’s done nothing. He never does anything.

But justice, according to Nebula, isn’t based on individual guilt. It’s based on atmospheric disturbance.

Something had clearly disturbed Her Majesty this morning.

Hugo, ever the gentlecat, walked away as if nothing had happened.

Finally: Callie.

Perhaps Nebula wanted to save the best—or the worst—for last. Maybe she wanted to give him time to sweat, to feel the claws of doom approaching.

Callie is our largest cat, a gray tabby, a faux Maine Coon Mix with an elegant white cravat. Faux because he looks like one, but a DNA test showed that he barely has two Maine Coon genes to rub together.

Our unfortunate Callie has the heart of a storm-tossed poet and the nervous system of a Victorian child raised on too much literature and not enough hugs.

He is the most scaredy-cat of the bunch. John holding a hat in his hands frightens him. Me wearing a swishy skirt sends him into existential terror. Most mornings, he freezes at the top of the stairs, cringing from some invisible gust of doom. His eyes ask: Is that man down there safe? Who is he? Is it safe now to descend into the realm of coffee beans?

Only after I give him the morning blessing does he venture down.

For Queen Nebula, such a creature is anathema. His mere existence is an affront that sends her into a hissy fit. For him, she reserves her fiercest whacks. She lunges. She grabs him in a headlock and chatters into his face like a hysterical schoolmarm convinced the world is ending and only volume can save it.

And what does Callie do?

He cringe-spins, hunkering down as low as his dense, fluffy body will allow, a Study in Defeated Floof. This, in spite of Callie outweighing Nebula by three or four pounds at least.

And so that is what happened.

In my temporary absence, Nebula attempted to hold the shape of the world alone. She was not restoring peace. She was preventing disintegration.

Sure, Dad-staff was there. But that’s like furniture being there. Useful. Solid. But not in charge of the weather.

It seems that when I left the downstairs ecosystem, Nebula clocked a drop in atmospheric pressure. Not chaos yet, but the potential for drift. And she stepped in as Acting Cosmic Comptroller.

She did not ask who is wrong. She asked who is wobbling.

Which is to say: authority isn’t always loud.

But fear is always legible.