Tag Archives: Life with cats

Banner, My Little Helper

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Banner the cat gets ready to start his day with a cup of Joe.

A Day in the Life (With Cats, of Course)

My days are pretty full. A “typical” day — if such a thing exists — might include some housework. Believe it or not, I love cleaning my kitchen. I spend so much time in there that making it sparkle feels like restoring my natural habitat.

Then come the smaller chores: taking out the trash, scooping the kitty litter, doing laundry. Somewhere in there I carve out an hour or two with my resident lap cat, Balboa, to read a chapter or two from whatever book currently has its claws in me.

And of course, I always make time to write. Sometimes it’s a full post, sometimes it’s just a snippet to be polished later. In between all that, I pay bills, run errands, and do the weekly grocery run.

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The Chores I Don’t Love

What I do not enjoy are those little unplanned chores — the ones that ambush you. The smoke alarm starts chirping at 3 a.m. because the battery is dying. The toilet won’t stop running because it needs a new flapper (yes, I replace those too).

But the absolute worst offender?

Changing a light bulb.

The moment I drag out my ladder, all those ridiculous light‑bulb jokes start running through my head.
How many software engineers does it take to screw in a light bulb? None — it’s a hardware problem.
You know the type. How many have you heard?

My Ongoing Feud With the Ladder

So why does such a simple task bother me? One word: ladder. I can trip over my own feet with both of them firmly on the ground. When I use my step stool to reach the top shelf in the kitchen, I hold my breath. It’s only one step, but still…

The older I get, the more convinced I am that the ladder is out to get me. I even upgraded — tossed the old wooden one and bought a heavy‑duty rubber model that could probably support a small elephant. It’s sturdy, reliable, and still absolutely terrifies me.

Enter Banner: Supervisor of All Heights

But not my little helper.

Banner is fascinated. The moment I lock the ladder open, he’s right under my feet. Hmmm… could this be part of why I fear falling? Once the ladder is set, I’m ready to climb — in theory. In reality, I suddenly discover dozens of “urgent” tasks at ground level. Procrastination is an art form, and I am a master.

Banner, however, is not. He inspects each step with great seriousness, climbing all the way to the top. Once there, he surveys the kitchen like a tiny orange foreman. It is now his personal domain, and he is the supervisor of all that happens here. If only he had hands and opposable thumbs.

The Light Bulb Gets Changed… Just Not by Me

Did the light bulb get changed?
Yes. Yes, it did — but not by me or Banner.

My much younger, very kind neighbor came to rescue the old lady in distress. In minutes, the old bulbs were out, the new ones were in, and the crisis was over. As he stepped off the ladder he said, “Nice ladder — where’d you get that? And can I pet the cat?”

And just like that, the job was done.

Kitty Shenanigans: The Continuing Saga of Life With Two Cats

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Cat Wrestling to start the day off right. What more can be in store for me?

The Morning Mayhem Begins

What a morning. My two tiny terrors have been in rare form. Usually the day starts the same way: breakfast for both kitties, followed by a full‑speed race around the condo. I try not to be in my recliner when this happens, because it’s one of the main sections of their racetrack. They’re just as likely to launch off my head — leaving tufts of my gray hair behind — as they are to springboard off the back of the chair. It’s truly a dangerous place to sit once they’re wound up.

The Post‑Race “Recovery” Phase

After that comes the recovery phase. Once they’ve burned off that first burst of morning energy, they each find a spot for a quick nap while they wait for me to clean the litter box. They supervise this process closely. As soon as I finish, they each reclaim a box — I’ll spare you the explanation. Then they get their morning treats, and normally I get a little peace to write, read, or even sneak in a nap of my own.

Balboa, Agent of Desktop Chaos

But today? Today they rewrote the script.

It started with Balboa. As soon as he finished breakfast, he came over to my desk to “see what I was doing.” He stretched out across the desktop, looking perfectly relaxed. That was just to lull me into a false sense of security. The moment I moved my hand from mouse to keyboard, a paw shot out like lightning. He grabbed for the mouse. I grabbed back. My typing came to a halt. Balboa was not deterred. His paw moved from mouse to keyboard, and the next thing I knew, I had a whole blog post of kitty gibberish.

This back‑and‑forth went on for a while. I was getting nothing done, and Balboa was delighted with himself. Fortunately, he has a short attention span and eventually wandered off to find some other form of mischief.

Banner vs. The Fitbit: A Rivalry for the Ages

Enter Banner.

My Fitbit was on the charger — and somehow, Banner knew. My Fitbit is his nemesis. He tries to chew it off my arm, he finds it when I hide it in the medicine cabinet during my shower, and no matter which charging station I use, he senses it. He has some sort of sixth sense for wearable technology.

Thus began my efforts to distract a determined agent of chaos. Banner has a much longer attention span than Balboa, and this was turning into a full morning of distraction. Cat 1, Hooman 0. The Fitbit barely survived.

Eventually, I gave up trying to charge it and put it back on my wrist. Banner gave me a tail flip — the feline equivalent of a rude gesture — followed by a disgusted look before wandering off, muttering under his breath the whole way.

Temporary Peace… Probably

Back to my work… I hope.

I quietly snuck the Fitbit back onto the charger. Both cats finally settled down for their morning nap/recharge cycle. And now I wait, wondering what they’ll dream up next.

Tiger Panther box war

Living with cats is like living with tiny, furry project managers — always supervising, never helpful, and absolutely convinced the world revolves around their schedule.

Banner and Balboa would like you to know this post contains affiliate links. If you buy through them, I may earn a small commission — which they insist should go toward treats, toys, or whatever they’ve decided to knock off the counter next.

 

Nighttime Horrors: A Cat Mom’s Descent Into Sleepless Madness

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my sleep deprived morning ritualThe Sleep Deprivation Olympics (I’m Winning… Unfortunately)

I’m running on 3.5 hours of sleep, and honestly, at this point I’m not sure if I’m awake or just hallucinating in HD. Ever since we “sprang forward,” Banner has decided that nighttime is the perfect time to reinvent himself as a one‑cat Broadway production.

Balboa, shockingly, is the calm one at bedtime. This is the same cat who sprints down the hallway like he’s reenacting The Fast and the Furious: Feline Drift, but come bedtime? He becomes my personal sleep therapist. He sits by my head, stares at me like a disappointed Victorian father, and waits for me to assume the “correct position.” Then he curls up on my hand, presses his face into mine, and purrs like a tiny, furry white-noise machine. I’ve grown dependent on this. I’m not proud.

Meanwhile, Banner Begins His Nightly Performance

Banner refuses to get into bed. That would be too easy. Instead, he begins the Symphony of Increasingly Urgent Meows, starting soft and sweet and escalating until it sounds like he’s reporting a murder.

I turn on the light. I get out of bed. And there he is — perched on top of the dresser like a gargoyle who pays rent. The moment I stand, he hops down and climbs onto the bench next to the bed, ready for his nightly petting session with the rubber mitt.

 

 

 

 

 

So I pet him. I tell him he’s a good kitty, remind him it’s bedtime. I tell him to stop crying. He purrs so hard his whole body vibrates like a furry jackhammer. But I can’t do this too long or he starts biting the glove like he’s trying to “encourage” me. I don’t want to find out what the next level of encouragement looks like.

The 3 A.M. Bathroom Adventure

Eventually he settles… until my bladder betrays me around 3 a.m.

I keep the bathroom door closed at night because Banner LOVES the acoustics in there. He sounds like he’s auditioning for Cats: The Shower Edition. And if he’s not singing, he’s knocking everything out of the medicine cabinet like a tiny, destructive raccoon.

But now I have to open the door. I keep the lights off, hoping to sneak in and out without waking anyone. Foolish. Banner follows me in every time, hops into the tub, and refuses to get out. I can’t close the door because His Royal Stubbornness is lounging in the tub like he’s at a spa.

The Bed Situation (Or: Why I Sleep on 6 Inches of Mattress)

Balboa has now migrated to the exact center of the bed. I squeeze myself onto the edge, trying not to squash him. He will not move. He trusts me far too much.

I’m just drifting off again when I hear something behind the headboard. Banner is up to something. Nothing good ever happens behind the headboard. I turn on the light to investigate. Banner has finally left the tub, so I quickly close the bathroom door.

And that’s when I hear it.

Ack (you know the sound), ack, and one more ack for good measure.

The universal sound of a cat preparing to ruin your life.

It’s 3 a.m.
Banner has produced a hairball.
Balboa is sitting upright in the center of the bed like he bought tickets to this show.

Do I Even Try to Sleep Again

I check the time. My brain is fully awake. Banner is trotting around like nothing happened. Balboa is bright‑eyed and ready for breakfast.

Should I even bother trying to go back to sleep?
Probably not.
This is my life now.

At this point, I’ve accepted that I don’t sleep — I simply take short, involuntary cat‑supervision breaks throughout the night. Banner and Balboa run the household. I’m just the exhausted human who pays the rent.

 

Wreck‑It Banner and the 5 A.M. Meow Choir

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Banner’s Brilliant (and Infuriating) Brain Returns

Sometimes Banner is just too smart for his own good — and definitely too smart for my sleep schedule. He’s back to his old tricks, and I’m one light‑switch incident away from investing in blackout curtains and earplugs.

The First Time He Turned on the Bathroom Light

He was still just a kitten when he learned how to flip the bathroom light on. I’ll never forget that moment. The bathroom is right off the bedroom, and suddenly my whole room lit up like a Broadway stage. I shot awake convinced someone had broken in… only to find one very satisfied orange cat who had apparently decided I’d slept long enough.

Banner Making himself at home in the bathroom sink

Between turning the light on and his other favorite pastime — opening the medicine cabinet and knocking everything onto the floor — my chances of a full night’s sleep were slim. My solution back then was simple: childproof covers on the switch and closing the bathroom door at bedtime. Peace returned.

For a while.

The New Trick: The Fan Switch at 3 A.M.

Now Banner has discovered the second switch — the one outside the bathroom that controls the vent fan and a dimmer light. Not as bright, but that fan hum at 3 a.m. could wake the dead. There’s nothing quite like rolling over and seeing the bathroom door outlined in a soft glow… and realizing the switch now has tiny teeth marks.

Look closely. You can see a tiny tooth mark

 

Yes, teeth marks. Banner doesn’t bump the switch — he bites it. My own little Wreck‑It Ralph in fur.

At least he hasn’t figured out how to open the door. Yet.

Looks like I’ll be buying more childproof switch covers. Again.

Balboa the Bed Hog and Banner the Bench Sleeper

Banner may be the engineer of chaos, but he’s not the cuddler. He prefers sleeping on the bench next to the bed, keeping a dignified distance. Balboa, on the other hand, wants to sleep on my face. Since I only have a twin bed, space is limited — and Balboa takes the lion’s (or should I say panther’s) share.

If I get up in the night, he immediately stretches his full, impressive length across the entire mattress. No room for Mama. And if I try to move him? Deeply offended.

Balboa’s rather impressive length

The 5 A.M. Meow Choir

Between the nighttime shenanigans and the early morning wake‑up calls — Banner usually starts the meow choir around 5 a.m., with Balboa chiming in for harmony — I spend most days wandering around in a sleep‑deprived fog.

Kitty Choir in 2 part harmony

Life with cats can be such a joy.