A Step-by-Step Guide to Ruining Your Life with a Cat (And Why You Should)

The neem tree behind my building had been dying. Mishti chose it anyway. I suppose it was her nature.

2 AM. My shift should've ended right now—eight hours of scripts and lies completed, commission earned. Except I never went in. Just... didn't show up. Stayed home. Turned off my phone like that would make the decision disappear.

Turned it back on minutes before to find twenty-three messages.

Amber eyes reflecting my phone's flashlight like tiny suns of judgment, the branch looked ready to disintegrate, my cat perched on it with the confidence of something that had never experienced consequence.

"I know you have nine lives," I called up, "but I'm asking you not to waste one right now."

She licked her paw. An entire performance of indifference.

My phone buzzed again. Vikram: "Where were you?"

Then: "You can make it up. Come in now. Work the 2-10 AM shift."

Then: "Your choice. Show up or you're done."

I looked at the messages. At the job that made me vomit in bathrooms with broken locks. At six months of pretending this was temporary while it carved grooves into who I was.

I looked back at Mishti.

She meowed—that specific pitch that meant choose.

I turned off my phone.

This moment didn't start here. It started six months earlier, with a different kind of mistake. The kind that arrives in a carrier with the wrong address and rearranges your entire life around feeding schedules and 2 AM emergencies.

Let me walk you through it.

Step One: Acquire a Problem You Didn't Ask For

The cat arrived on a Tuesday. Tuesdays were for Camus and cold coffee, for pretending my studio apartment in Indore's Vijay Nagar was a Parisian garret and not just expensive square footage near the good bakery.

The delivery man, no eye contact, gone before questions, left a carrier at my door. Note attached: "As requested. Handle with care."

I hadn't requested anything.

Inside: amber eyes, grey fur, and the concentrated fury of something promised first class but delivered cargo hold.

"Wrong address," I told those eyes.

The cat pissed in my shoe.

Mrs. Desai in 4C, actual recipient, actual animal person, took one look at the claw marks on my vintage Mehta textile (now featuring damage that looked like cuneiform) and said: "She's chosen you."

"I don't want to be chosen."

"Nobody does, beta. That's how you know it matters."

Mrs. Desai left. The cat stayed. I named her Mishti ironically, nothing sweet about this creature who approached my bookshelf like Cortés eyeing Tenochtitlan.

Step Two: Justify Everything Poorly

"Customer service representative," I told my mother during our Sunday video call. Technically true, the way a guillotine is technically a problem-solving device.

"At which company?"

"BPO. You wouldn't know it."

"Salary?"

"Comfortable."

My mother's face did that thing—pursed lips, slight head tilt. Translation: my daughter has a computer science degree from a good college and says 'comfortable' instead of numbers with zeros.

"At least you're working," she said, which we both knew meant what a waste.

After she hung up, I fed Mishti the expensive imported stuff. Watched her eat with that concentrated pleasure cats reserve for things that cost too much.

"All systems are corrupt," I told her, "I'm just participating with more self-awareness."

She yawned. Looked at me with what I can only describe as aristocratic disdain.

"Oh, I see," I said, trying out a voice—high-pitched, vaguely British. "Her Majesty finds my philosophical justifications tedious?"

She walked over. Made eye contact. Meowed once.

"Quite right. Shut up and feed you. Got it."

I laughed at myself. Already talking to a cat in accents. This was my life now.

The truth I didn't say to my mother or my college friends posting about "meaningful work" at Google and McKinsey was simpler and more embarrassing:

I'd taken the job because it was easy.

Evening shift, 6 PM to 2 AM. Perfect for someone avoiding daylight, questions, and mirrors. Show up. Read script. Cash check. No office politics. No performance reviews. No pretending to care about synergy or disruption or whatever Silicon Valley word was currently metastasizing through corporate India.

Just moral rot. But efficient.

Step Three: Work in a Place That Couldn't Exist on Google Maps

The building sat in Chhoti Gwaltoli, the part of Indore that made "India's Cleanest City" sound like a punchline. Roads tapering into lanes. Lanes into architectures that caused claustrophobia.

Three floors up a staircase. No elevator. No signage. Just spit-stained paan portraits flowering on walls like botanical studies in carmine and betel. Someone's lunch. Someone's boredom. Someone's territory marked in organic geometry.

Door at the top: unmarked. Thick. The kind that didn't want opening.

Inside: fluorescent lights humming at tooth-ache frequency. Twenty desks. Nineteen people. One bathroom requiring both bravery and amnesia.

"No cameras," Vikram had said during my "interview", really just him handing me a headset and script. "For privacy."

"Whose privacy?"

"Ours."

The room smelled like rexine, body spray, and the particular desperation of people convinced this was temporary. Just until the startup launches. Just until the IT job comes through. Just until I figure out what I actually want.

Month seven of just until.

I loved my life. I hated myself.

Step Four: Meet Someone Who Makes Everything Worse

Dinesh sat in the corner where fluorescent lights flickered and darkness gathered like sediment. IT guy. Mid-forties.

He'd been there longer than anyone. Knew where bodies were buried. Metaphorically. Probably literally.

"Priya," he said one night, appearing behind me. No sound. No warning. No concept of personal space. "Computer problems?"

"It's fine."

"Looks slow. I could... optimize it."

"Really, it's—"

His hand already on my mouse. Leaning over. Breath smelling like cigarettes and fennel seeds gone rancid, like he'd been chewing them for days to cover something worse underneath.

"Dinesh," Vikram called across the room. Sharp. Sudden. "Leave her alone."

Dinesh straightened. Smile widening. "Just helping."

After he shuffled back to his corner, I asked Vikram: "Why don't you fire him?"

Vikram laughed, "Fire him? Priya, he built the call routing system. Knows every bank account we use. Every fake company registration. Every backup server in every country with no extradition treaties. You know what happens if we fire him?"

"He reports us."

"He becomes us. Copies the whole operation. Competition by next Tuesday."

"So he just... stays."

"He stays. You avoid eye contact. You learn which parts of the room are his and you don't go there."

I looked at Dinesh in his corner. He was watching us. Still smiling.

Step Five: Excel at Something You Hate

My numbers were good. Excellent, actually.

I had a voice for this, educated, neutral, accentless in that global-nowhere way that made people think "legitimate".

"Sir, this is the IRS. Your social security number has been flagged for suspicious activity."

The elderly Texas man went quiet immediately.

"What do I do?"

"To prevent arrest, you'll need to verify your identity and pay $20,000 immediately through the link provided."

"I don't understand."

"It's a secure payment method, sir. Untraceable by the hackers who've compromised your account."

Across the room, Dinesh watched. Not his screen. Me. Always me. Smiling.

"I… I need to send you money?"

"Yes, sir. And please don't hang up—your case is urgent."

"Okay. Okay."

He was crying. I could hear it—that shaky breath of someone trying to hold it together while everything inside them collapses.

I entered his details. Forwarded him to the collections department.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," he said, voice trembling.

I felt like a cog in some twisted Trojan horse.

Then I moved on to the next call.

Later, in the bathroom with the door that didn't lock right, graffiti reading "Hell is a customer service center," I threw up.

Vikram knocked. "You okay?"

"Food poisoning."

"Your numbers are good though. Commission's going to be nice this month."

Nice. Blood money, but make it sound like a bonus.

When I got home at 2:30 AM, Mishti was at the door. Not meowing for food. Just sitting. Tail wrapped around paws.

"Mother has RETURNED!" I said in that voice—louder now, more committed, Victorian governess discovering her charge alive. "Unharmed from the TREACHEROUS outside world! What RELIEF!"

She head-butted my ankle.

"I kept VIGIL! Protected the household from SEVENTEEN demons, a suspicious DUST PARTICLE, and the HEINOUS bird that dared perch outside OUR window!"

When I sat on the floor—couldn't make it to couch, couldn't make it anywhere—she walked over. Pressed her forehead against my knee. Hard. Insistent.

The voice made it easier somehow. Made everything absurd enough to survive.

I stayed on that floor for an hour.

She stayed too. Warm. Present. Not fixing anything, just refusing to leave.

Step Six: Let Something Small Become Everything

Mishti developed routines.

Noon: I'd be dead asleep. She'd sit on my chest. One paw gently, tapping my face. When I didn't move, pressure increased. Then a single claw, precise as a notification.

"OW—okay, I'm up."

She'd chirp. Hop off. Walk to kitchen. Sit by empty bowl. Look back with an expression clearly saying: I've done my part. Your move.

I was committed to the voice now. Loneliness does things. Once I started, I couldn't stop. Because Mishti wasn't modern. She was Victorian. Aggrieved. Deeply offended by the world's refusal to bend to her obvious superiority.

"Mother," I'd say in her voice—high-pitched, dripping with aristocratic disdain—"Mother has ABANDONED me! Left to STARVE in this godforsaken hovel whilst she SLUMBERS!"

She'd meow back. Encouragingly, I think.

"The audacity! The CRUELTY!" I continued, filling her bowl. "I shall pen a strongly worded letter to the authorities regarding this EGREGIOUS NEGLECT!"

She ate like nothing had happened.

The voice became routine. Background noise to my life. Her running commentary on every injustice, every indignity, and every window that dared remain closed during bird-watching hours.

Thursday: My interview blouse—the one I'd been saving for job applications I was too afraid to send—now featured strategic ventilation courtesy of Her Majesty's claws.

I held it up, furious. She looked directly at me.

Knocked my Foucault hardcover off the table.

Again.

"Mother forces me to take DRASTIC measures!" Her voice came automatically now, like breathing. "She hoards USELESS GARMENTS whilst I languish in OBSCURITY!"

She meowed. Agreement, probably.

"Fine. You're right. I'm not applying anywhere."

"At LAST! Mother sees REASON!"

I laughed. Which was worse than crying. Because I was having full conversations with my cat about my failure to escape, and she was right, and I was still feeding her the expensive stuff.

Saturday: Found her staring at the corner. Just... staring. Twenty minutes. At nothing visible to human eyes.

"What do you see?"

She didn't blink. Didn't move.

"Spirits, Mother," I said in her voice, quieter now, ominous. A governess discovering something terrible in the attic. "SPIRITS most foul. They whisper of your MORAL FAILINGS. I keep watch. You're WELCOME."

"There's nothing there."

"Your IGNORANCE is both STUNNING and PREDICTABLE."

And the thing was, maybe she was right. Maybe there were spirits. The man in Texas. The woman in Ohio who'd cried about her grandchildren needing the money. The elderly couple who'd scraped together everything in their small town because "the IRS" said their son would be arrested.

Maybe they all gathered in my apartment corners at 3 AM. Maybe Mishti saw them. Maybe that's why she stared.

Sunday: She sat at the window. Watching rain. Looked at me. Meowed. Looked at rain. Meowed. Looked at me.

"I can't stop the rain, Mishti."

Another meow. More insistent.

"Mother is USELESS! INCOMPETENT!" The voice came automatically, armour against thinking too hard. "What PURPOSE does she serve if not to COMMAND THE HEAVENS?"

"I'm not God."

She headbutted the window. Hard. Then looked at me with pure aristocratic disdain.

"Have you even ATTEMPTED to stop the rain, Mother? Or do you simply ACCEPT your limitations like a PEASANT?"

I was creating elaborate personalities for my cat. Having full conversations with her. In a Victorian accent. About my failure to control weather and my life and everything else spiraling slowly out of my grip.

I was becoming one of those people. The ones who called their pets their children. Who showed up at midnight because something needed them. Who rearranged their entire schedule around feeding times.

The mortifying thing was, I understood now. I'd thought pets were supposed to be useful. Guard dogs. Therapy animals. Instagram content that made your life look intentional.

Mishti ran into windows. Stared at invisible spirits. Destroyed my interview blouse. Had no job, no purpose, no measurable value by any practical metric.

But turns out the most useful thing in the world sometimes is something that needs you.

Step Seven: Realize the Math Doesn't Work Anymore

Back to the tree at 2 AM.

"Rajesh!" I yelled toward the courtyard. "You have a ladder?"

"Broken!"

"Sharma-ji?"

"He's asleep! And he hates you!"

"I'll pay money!"

A window opened. "How much?"

Everything with this cat cost me something.

Sharma-ji's ladder was ancient—collapsible metal groaning ominously as I extended it.

I climbed.

Mishti watched my progress with film-critic interest. Mild curiosity. Low expectations. Possibly writing scathing review in her head about my technique.

"When I get you down," I said, "serious talk about boundaries."

She yawned. All teeth visible.

"Third time this month."

Another meow. Closer now.

"I could leave you. Let you figure it out. You're a cat. Instincts."

She headbutted my hand when I reached her. Claws digging into my palm—not breaking skin, just pressure. The same pressure from that night on the floor. That morning on my chest. Every time she'd sat beside me while I pretended to read, stared at my laptop not applying to jobs, convinced myself this was fine, this was temporary, this wasn't eating me alive from the inside.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Vikram: "You're fired."

Then immediately: "JK. You can't be fired. You'd talk."

Then: "Just come in tomorrow. We'll forget this happened."

I thought about going back. About Dinesh in his corner, smiling. About the man in Texas and his daughter who'd called the center last week, furious, demanding to know which monsters had stolen her father's life savings. About the bathroom that didn't lock. About the taste of copper that never quite left my mouth.

I turned off my phone.

Mishti climbed onto my shoulder—awkward, claws everywhere, purring like a broken motor that somehow still worked.

"Mother has PERFORMED adequately," I said in her voice, descending carefully. "I am MODERATELY satisfied with this RESCUE."

She purred louder. Vibrating through my collarbone.

We went inside. I didn't turn my phone back on.

Step Eight: Burn It Down (Metaphorically)

The email was simple: "I quit. Effective immediately. Don't contact me."

I hit send. Mishti knocked a cup off the counter in what I chose to interpret as applause.

"MAGNIFICENT," I said in her voice, watching the cup roll across the floor. "Mother has FINALLY taken DECISIVE action. I am OVERWHELMED with pride."

She meowed. Walked over to her bowl. Empty, obviously.

"Though she NEGLECTS her duties to ME. As USUAL."

My mother called not long after, "How's work?"

"I quit."

Silence. The particular silence preceding disappointment speeches I'd memorized by age twelve.

"What will you do?"

"Freelance coding. Maybe. Still figuring it out."

"This is what happens when you don't plan. When you just—"

"Mom." Sharper than intended. "I need to figure out what I actually want. The job wasn't..."

How do you explain moral injury to someone who raised you on stability and good colleges and sensible choices? How do you say it was corroding me without sounding dramatic?

"It wasn't right," I finished. Weak. Insufficient.

"Nothing is ever right with you, Priya. When will something be enough?"

I looked at Mishti. Currently attempting to fit her entire body into a shoebox three sizes too small. Failing. Trying again with absolute conviction physics would eventually bend to her will.

"I got a cat," I said. Non sequitur, but somehow the most relevant thing I could think of.

"A cat?"

"She's mostly useless. Runs into windows. Stares at demons I can't see. Climbs trees at 2 AM to make me choose between sleep and conscience."

Silence. Different quality now.

"What kind of cat?"

"Grey tabby. Amber eyes."

"Send me pictures. Of the cat."