Tag Archives: Life with cats

Cats and Chaos: Life With Two Six‑Year‑Old Furry Agents of Mayhem

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Two cats play with a cardboard box on a carpeted floor; an orange cat lies inside the box on its back while a black cat stands outside, reaching in with a paw.

A Chaotic Day in a Two‑Cat Household

Yesterday was an especially chaotic day for the kitties — the kind of day where fur flies, nerves fray, and you wonder how two small creatures can generate so much drama. For the first time in six years, I actually yelled at Balboa. Just two words: BAD CAT! I’m usually endlessly patient with both cats, especially Balboa, who’s shy, noise‑averse, and generally my sensitive little shadow. But yesterday? Yesterday he earned his moment.

Season Change Shenanigans A black cat on a beige carpet sticks its head inside the back compartment of a red and gray vacuum cleaner, appearing to investigate the machine.

Both Balboa and Banner are six years old, but lately Balboa has been acting more like a six‑month‑old kitten. With the cooler weather rolling in, I haven’t had the deck slider open as much — it’s too cold, and like any good New Englander, I refuse to turn the heat on in September. I try to make it to November 1 before touching the thermostat. Maybe the cats are struggling with the seasonal shift, because Balboa has been:

  • sleeping less
  • meowing more
  • tormenting Banner
  • racing around like a demented demon

Banner, ever the sensible one, retreats to the bathroom sink when he’s had enough.

A ginger cat is curled up comfortably inside a bathroom sink, nestled against the granite countertop with faucets and a soap dispenser nearby.

Balboa’s Hyperactive Tour of the House

A black cat stands on top of a white plastic laundry basket placed on a tall black cabinet, surveying the room with blue curtains and additional baskets in the background.Yesterday, Balboa was in full Balboa Mode — climbing the cat tree, the bookshelf, the hutch, the table, and stopping at the cat grass like it was his personal salad bar. Meowing the entire time. I ignored him, assuming he’d eventually burn off the chaos.

After chasing Banner around the living room, things finally went quiet. I thought, Great. Peace at last.

I was wrong.

The Crash Heard Across the KitchenA black cat balances on the end of a thin tree branch with green leaves, looking downward against a pale blue background.

A huge crash exploded from the kitchen. Balboa was perched on the counter between the kitchen and dining room, looking down like he’d just summoned gravity on purpose.

I don’t dash anymore, but I moved fast enough. I’ve long since relocated anything breakable to cupboards, but Balboa still found a way.

I was in the middle of swapping out the Brita filter — a routine I’ve perfected to avoid buying filters during tight budget months. I keep two 27‑cup dispensers so I can rotate them and buy filters on my own timeline.

Balboa decided the dispenser didn’t belong on his counter. He poked, nudged, and tested it until gravity took over. Plastic + hard floor = shattered dispenser.

In my head, I heard my mother’s voice: “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

A clear Brita water dispenser with a gray lid sits beside a white cylindrical Brita filter cartridge on a light surface.

Budget Panic Meets Cat Chaos

My next thought was: Not this month. The annual vet bill and vaccinations are coming up, and replacing a dispenser wasn’t in the September budget. Rationally, I knew I wouldn’t need a new one for 3–4 months, but in the moment? Logic didn’t matter.

So I yelled.

A black cat sits inside a large cardboard box filled with crumpled brown packing paper, with a shipping label visible on one of the flaps.The Aftermath: Cat Guilt and Cat Time‑Out

Everything stopped. Banner dropped his tail and vanished into the bedroom — probably straight to the sink. Balboa shrank into himself, then streaked into his cardboard box and curled up like a tiny guilty gremlin.

I felt bad… but he looked adorable. He stayed in that box all afternoon, only emerging for dinner before returning to his self‑assigned time‑out.

By bedtime, the household was back to normal. Both cats were roaming the premises again, hunting for their nightly treats. The plastic shards were cleaned up, the crisis was over, and life with cats — and chaos — continues.

A black cat sits upright on the top platform of a beige cat tree while an orange cat lounges stretched out on the middle level, with white blinds, blue walls, framed cat photos, and a leafy plant in the background.

 

The Daily Cat Food Circus: Banner the Crunchy Monk & Balboa the Diva Prince

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Two cats sitting on a carpeted floor near a sliding glass door — an orange tabby with a fluffy tail and a black cat with bright yellow eyes — with a beige cat tree and a blue mat in the background.

Meet My Boys: Banner the Crunchy Monk and Balboa the Diva Prince

My boys’ eating habits are going to be the end of me. I swear I spend more money on cat food than on my own groceries, and for what? For Banner—my chunky, overweight orange tabby who cosplays as Garfield but without Garfield’s enthusiasm for literally anything edible. No lasagna, thank you. 

Banner eats one thing: crunchies. Dry, boring, hairball‑preventive nuggets of kitty kibble. That’s it. Six years of the same crunch nuts. Six. Years. Why isn’t he sick of it?

Every morning I top off his bowl—carefully measured, because he’s already shaped like a decorative throw pillow—and he sits there politely, takes two bites, and walks away like a man who just tasted a wine flight and found it “acceptable.” Then he nibbles on that same bowl all day. Predictable. Calm. Reasonable. Honestly, he’s the only stable man in my life.

Balboa: The Morning Diva Who Demands Breakfast in Bed

And then… there’s Balboa.

Balboa is a diva. A dramatic little man-cat who believes he is entitled to breakfast in bed. I wake up with his “little” body plastered to my side (he’s not little anymore, but don’t tell him that). If I dare move, he gives me a look like I’ve ruined his entire morning. “Bring me breakfast, hooman slave.” In your dreams, sir.

I stagger to the kitchen, swap bowls, give Banner his crunchies… but Balboa? Nowhere. He’s still in bed, waiting for his royal summons.

The Wet Food Ritual That Never Goes as Planned

I set his can of wet food on the counter—not opening it yet—and head to the bathroom. As I pass the bed, a tiny black head pops up from the pillows like a dramatic groundhog predicting six more weeks of attitude.

Back in the kitchen? Still no Balboa.

I refuse to put out his wet food until he joins us, so I go to my desk to do my morning routine—blood sugar test, emails, the usual. Eventually, anywhere from five minutes to an hour later, His Majesty saunters in, stretches, meows loudly… and walks straight to Banner’s bowl to eat crunchies.

Crunchies. The SAME crunchies he has ignored for years.

The Manipulation Begins: “Feed Me Now, Hooman”

I try to let it go. I try to ignore his “I’m starving” whimpers. But then he starts scratching me like a tiny furry velociraptor. Fine. I feed him.

Does he eat his very expensive almost‑a‑dollar‑a‑can wet food? Of course not. He walks away and finds a box to sit in for the day. He got what he wanted: he made me serve him breakfast, even if he has no intention of eating it.

The Waste, the Budget, and the Vet Who Says He’s Overweight

I don’t waste my food.  My grocery trips are  planned and meals portioned out. I stretch leftovers. But Balboa? He licks the gravy and leaves the rest like a toddler rejecting vegetables.

He’s not starving—last year the vet said he was overweight by a pound. He’s definitely flunking his physical this year.

I’ve tried skipping his morning meal, but if I want peace in the house, that’s not an option. He is persistent. He is dramatic and he is very spoiled.

Conclusion: I Live With a Diva Cat and a Crunchy Monk

He is… a diva cat. And I am his exhausted, financially ruined, gravy‑scraping servant.

Parkour Madness

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Two cats engaged in a friendly wrestling match, paws wrapped around each other.

The Night the Zoomies Took Flight

It was a parkour moment of madness.

It started like any normal night. We had our before‑bed play session, and then Banner climbed onto the top of my dresser and refused to come down — so we skipped the bedtime grooming with the glove. Fine. I got myself settled into bed, eyes just starting to get heavy, drifting toward sleep.

And then it happened.

Little cat feet came stampeding my way. A bounce on my feet at the end of the bed — just a quick pounce and gone. Then a mad scramble on the floor, some batting, some wrestling, and then… stillness.

I let my eyes close again.

That’s when I heard something behind me, followed by a blur of orange fluff skimming my head and landing with a whump right in front of my face. Eighteen pounds of fat cat. My heart was pounding. I swear I felt claws scrape my scalp (and maybe my face), but Banner simply repositioned himself on the nightstand and stared at me like a stone gargoyle.

Then something caught his attention.
His ears perked; he stretched up. Balboa was peeking over the footboard — and that was all it took.

 

They were off again, over the bed and into the living room. The parkour moment had passed.

The 3:30 a.m. Aftermath

Around 3:30 a.m., I made my nightly trip to the bathroom. Banner followed, calm as could be, as if the earlier chaos had never happened. When I came back to bed, Balboa had made himself comfortable — totally normal. But then Banner hopped up and took my side of the bed. No room for Mom.

But it was so unusual, I couldn’t even be mad. We had a late‑night, early‑morning cuddle session until Balboa realized his brother was next to him. Then off they went again, and I finally got the bed back.

Fitbit always tells me I don’t get restful sleep.
I wonder why.

 

The Midnight Gremlins Have Arrived

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Banner and Balboa, the midnight gremlins, resting up for thier midnight shenanigans

When Biology Betrays You

Cats are crepuscular creatures — meaning they’re wired to be most active at dawn and dusk. In theory, that should make them perfect companions for humans. They nap when we nap, they prowl when we’re vaguely functional, and everyone lives in harmony.

In theory.

Meanwhile, my sleep schedule has begun wandering around like a toddler in a mall. My Fitbit regularly tattles on me, reporting a grand total of 4–5 hours of sleep most nights. I make up the rest with naps whenever the universe allows.

New Habits, New Chaos

Two things have changed in my household recently:

  1. I’ve started doing deep breathing/meditation at bedtime.
    Shockingly, it’s helping. I fall asleep faster and stay asleep longer — aside from the 3 a.m. bathroom pilgrimage.
  2. I got an AeroGarden.
    More on that in another post, but let’s just say I did not read ahead in the instructions. I followed them step by step like a good little rule-follower… until the very end, where a tiny footnote casually mentioned that the grow light is on a timer.

A timer I unknowingly set for 4:30 p.m.
Which means the grow light blazes like a miniature sun all night long and shuts off at 7:30 a.m.

Great for the plants.
Fine for me — I’m in the bedroom.
But the cats?

Does a Midnight Sun Scramble Kitty Brains?

This is the question that now haunts me.

Because last night, around midnight, something woke me up. I cracked one eye open and saw… ears. Two little ears at mattress level. I reached out and felt fluff.

Banner.
Sitting silently on my step stool, perfectly positioned so his face was level with mine. Staring. Unblinking. Like a Victorian ghost child but with whiskers.

I rolled slightly, and another shape entered my field of vision.

For a moment, I thought Snoopy in his vulture pose had materialized in my bedroom.
Nope.
Balboa, perched on my nightstand, looming over me like I was a snack he wasn’t sure he was allowed to eat.

They should have been asleep.
They should NOT have been conducting a midnight surveillance operation.

The Weeklong Experiment

The AeroGarden has only been running two nights. I’m giving it a week. If Banner and Balboa continue their nocturnal sentry duties, I may have to reset the grow light so it runs during the day instead of lighting up the house like a UFO landing pad.

I adore my cats.
But being stared down by two furry gremlins at midnight?
Spooky.

 

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.