Ahh, another day, another cat treat. Banner is up and easing into his morning routine, stretching like he’s preparing for a big day at WMEO. Of course, he’s still waiting for the makeup lady to show up and fix his hair. Life as a WMEO anchor is tough, but someone has to do it.
Live from the WMEO News Desk — Taunton MA
Balboa, Head of Creative Operations, reviewing his unexpected promotion with mild disappointment.
Breaking News: It’s Happy Cat MonthWMEO is interrupting your regularly scheduled scrolling with a critical update: September is officially Happy Cat Month, and the newsroom cats are already taking full advantage of the festivities.
Banner and Balboa have cleared their schedules, sharpened their claws, and prepared a full slate of investigative journalism, field reporting, and dramatic commentary.
Banner, Senior Bathroom Correspondent, demonstrating advanced relaxation techniques.
“Happy Cat Month is a time for reflection, naps, and reminding humans that the treat jar exists.”
He encourages viewers to celebrate responsibly by offering chin scritches, respecting nap zones, and refraining from saying things like “You’ve had enough snacks.”
Balboa, adjusting his glasses with visible judgment, delivered his own commentary:
“Cats everywhere will be celebrating by shedding aggressively, knocking items off counters, and insisting humans sit in the wrong chair.”
He also confirmed that WMEO will be releasing a special investigative report titled: “Who Moved My Treats? A Deep Dive.”
Pumpkin Spice reporting from the Fall Harvest Desk.
Pumpkin Spice checked in from a festive autumn scene, surrounded by pumpkins and hay bales. Her report was brief but powerful:
“The vibe is fall. The vibe is cozy. The vibe is ‘I will not be participating unless snacks are involved.’”
WMEO will be airing special coverage all month long, including:
“Happy Cat Month to all, and to all a good nap.”
Ah, the living room truce. It was too good to last. The cardboard box war wasn’t over — it was merely suspended, much like certain conflicts in the Middle East. A ceasefire, not a peace treaty.
All summer long, the boys were peaceful. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the window, watching squirrels, crows, and humans riding lawn mowers. Once they got over the noise, it became their morning entertainment. A live-action nature documentary.
But summer is ending, and the cats are getting restless. The squirrels are still out there, perpetually hungry and hiding nuts, but apparently that no longer holds their attention. And I — their long-suffering hooman — accidentally reignited hostilities.
It started innocently. I noticed the recycle bins were empty — a rare cosmic event. I can never figure out when they get emptied, so there’s never room for anything. My cardboard box supply had become a mountain.
So out came the X-Acto knife. Banner and Balboa watched closely. I swear I saw a tear in Balboa’s eye.
I kept one box to hold the flattened cardboard. The plan was simple: take all but one box to the trash. They’ve been sharing a box in the living room all summer, peacefully coexisting like two diplomats who finally learned to take turns.
I was down to THE BOX — the large box that was the focal point of the spring wars. I reached for it with high hopes of reclaiming my dining room table.
Then it happened.
A furry orange streak launched itself like a ballistic cruise missile. Banner was on the table and inside THE BOX (for the first time all summer) before my hand even got halfway there.
Tail up. Paper crinkling. Banner settling in.
The box had been reclaimed at the last possible moment.
Like any good peace negotiator, I let the moment settle. I figured Banner would lose interest, and I could attempt a stealth removal later.
But when I returned from taking the other boxes outside, the situation had changed.
Banner was now in the living room box. Balboa was in THE BOX.
A full personnel swap.
Believe me, I know when I’ve been beaten. The Box Wars have resumed. Someday I may regain the use of my table… but today is not that day.
Banner (opening): Good evening, viewers. Apparently tonight’s bulletin is about… me. I’ve been informed by the WMEO newsroom that today is Ginger Cat Appreciation Day, and as the resident orange correspondent, protocol requires that I acknowledge it with dignity and professionalism.
Balboa: Dignity? Banner, you’re an orange cat. You radiate sunshine, optimism, and the belief that every lap is reserved for you. This holiday was practically invented in your honor.
Banner: I do strive to bring calm, steady reporting to WMEO. Whether it’s wildlife rescues, neighborhood happenings, or keeping Balboa from turning every segment into a cooking show, I take my role seriously.
Balboa: He’s the backbone of this operation. The whiskered anchor. The ginger glow that keeps the newsroom warm. Also, he never steals my snacks, which is a quality I deeply admire.
Banner: Thank you, Balboa. I appreciate that… I think.
Today we celebrate:
From the first meow of the morning briefing to the final sign‑off at night, Banner brings steadiness to every broadcast.
Balboa: Here’s to Banner — the ginger legend, the calm in the newsroom storm, and the only cat who can make a breaking news alert sound like a bedtime story. Happy Ginger Cat Appreciation Day, buddy.
Banner: Thank you, Balboa. And thank you to our viewers for celebrating with us.
We Meow. You Listen.
Most mornings follow a predictable pattern: feed, scoop, give treats, then retreat for a nap. Zoomies are optional but usually included if someone uses the litter box right after breakfast. Banner and Balboa know this schedule by heart. When I finish scooping, I can always count on them sitting like furry statues in the living room, waiting for their treats.
Once a month, everything shifts. The Kitty Poo Club box arrives, and I drag it inside (literally — it’s heavy). With three fresh litter boxes, it’s more than just a quick scoop. It’s open the box, assemble the new trays, carry each one to its proper location, pour in the fresh litter, then deal with the old boxes.
I scoop the poop out before sealing the old boxes with tape and re‑boxing them. That step is just me being phobic. I can carry a bag of poop, but a box of poop? No thank you.
Here’s the funny part: Banner and Balboa know exactly what’s happening, and they hold their poop until the new boxes are ready.
As soon as I swap out the first box, there’s a stampede to see who gets to christen it. Whoever wins gets the first poop. The loser trots off to the bedroom and sits politely beside Box #2, waiting his turn. Once Box #2 is set up, he hops in and does his business. I guess it’s their way of marking territory.
The third box is the “extra” box. I’ve always followed the recommendation of one more box than cats: two cats = three boxes. That way there’s no waiting, no fights, and almost never an accident.
Years ago, when I had three cats, I used three regular plastic boxes and one automatic litter box a neighbor gave me. My tuxedo cat claimed that automatic box as his personal royal privy. He guarded it and refused to let the others near it. Some cats take their bathroom politics very seriously.
This month was a long one between checks — five weeks instead of four — so I had to delay the Kitty Poo delivery. Judging from how fast Banner and Balboa raced to the fresh litter, I think they were unimpressed with that extra week. They probably compared it to us using a porta‑potty or a gas station restroom. You all know exactly what I mean.
But we’re back on track now with a regular four‑week delivery. I do love Kitty Poo Club. Disposable litter boxes are so much easier than stinky plastic ones — and clearly, Banner and Balboa approve
This post includes an affiliate link. If you use it, I may earn a small commission — which Banner and Balboa assure me should go toward maintaining their monthly “fresh box” tradition. Thanks for supporting my little corner of the internet.
