My Cats Ate My Manifestation

My Cats Ate My Manifestation

So I finally did it.

I’m one of those people who like the idea of manifestation. Who will read books, watch YouTube videos, listen to podcasts, analyze the concept down to its minutest detail, and join groups to chat about it endlessly.

But I will not actually set any manifestation goals. I always feel that I need to know more, to understand more, before I can call on heaven and earth to get my wish.

Finally, though, I got tired of sitting on my duff and made the Decision (capital D, obviously) to call in real, tangible, no-more-BS financial abundance.

And not in the fall asleep listening to subliminals while half-scrolling Instagram kind of way. No. I was serious. I set the timer to go off every hour to remind myself to micro-visualize. I don’t like long visualizations. I recited a few targeted affirmations. And above all, I dropped into the feeling state. I tried to feel rich. Which, for the record, is nearly impossible when unopened, unused supplements are strewn about haphazardly, exuding accusations while four feline dependents stare at you, looking like they’re considering unionizing.

But I did it. I focused. I affirmed. I dared to dream.

And then.

The ants erupted.

Now, we’ve lived in this house for over twelve years. Never had ants before. Not like this. Not the kind that boils out of little nooks and corners, seething and unstoppable the moment a single, microscopic morsel of food hits the floor.

Apparently, my newfound vibration of wealth was also a beacon for every sugar-loving six-legged invader in a five-mile radius.

Still, I persisted. I declared, “I am a magnet for divine wealth.”

That’s when the cats stopped eating.

All four. Simultaneously. As if possessed by some feline groupthink that declared, “Let’s see how she likes manifesting her way through this.”

I opened premium cat cans of various kinds and flavors. Offered them human-grade tuna cans. They turned their little noses up. Even offered them sardine tins meant for humans. Packed in pure water. From Whole Foods. Wild caught. Sustainably farmed. Whatever. Nope, a hard pass.

What’s the big deal? You might ask. So they miss a few meals. If you don’t know about cats, you may not be aware that cats can get hepatic lipidosis (fatty liver disease) if they stop eating for 24 hours. Humans can get fatty liver disease and be fine for years—decades—and be okay, more or less. It’s like a slow-burning candle. But cats? It’s an emergency! It’s a ticking time bomb.

Our cats were on death watch!

Our regular vet was on vacation. Naturally. My husband and I were ringing up vet clinics at 2 a.m. They were either booked solid or, according to a neighbor, totally scammy. But that’s another story for another time. The only place we could go was a clinic that took both urgent care and emergency visits—an hour away with traffic—each way. So my husband and I made the trek. Four times in four days. Picture us: stumbling bleary-eyed, cat carriers in hand.

Bloodwork. Urinalysis. Subcutaneous fluids. Anti-nausea meds. Appetite stimulants. For the cats, obviously, not us—though at this point, both my husband and I could’ve used a sedative.

The bill? Thousands.

The good news is, we have pet insurance. The bad news is, pet insurance works like a rich uncle who promises to pay you back “later” and then ghosts you for a month.

By day five, the cats started eating again. All of them. With feral joy. They transformed overnight from delicate invalids to land sharks, aggressively circling cat bowls like they’d never seen food before.

Meanwhile, although the universe might be limitless, credit cards are not. I had a queasy feeling in my stomach.

Then the dishwasher broke.

Then the printer died.

Then we got hit with identity theft.

And no—before you ask—I have not seen a single extra penny drift my way. Not even a casual Venmo from the universe. Not even a rogue $2 lottery ticket win. Just... ants, vet bills, broken appliances, and a whole lot of testing.

Because, as they say—don’t they?—“the universe tests you when you set a big intention.”

But this? This was less “test” and more “final boss level in a metaphysical video game you didn’t realize you were playing.”

I’m starting to wonder if the Universe got me confused with someone else. Maybe a billionaire in Palo Alto was trying to manifest humility and it bounced off them and landed on me.

Or maybe my cats intercepted the transmission. Maybe they’re the ones manifesting now.

They do look smug.

Anyway.

I still believe in magic. Maybe. Kind of.

No, really, I’ve got to have faith. Maybe all this chaos is the magic. Just very, very badly dressed.

Stay tuned. I’ll keep manifesting. And cleaning up after the cats.

And the ants.

And the universe.

So what have your cats gifted you with lately?

Do you have similar experiences of being tested?