Exactly why you never wake a cat

This isn’t what I signed up for.

It is quite debasing, having to resort to stealth to hide from the lesser species. But this is a coveted assignment for my kind, fought for fiercely, and once won, it promised a life saturated in ease, safety, and luxury. I was ignorant of the indignity a cosmic titan like myself would be forced to endure, repeatedly. I wince as I think this, all while silently stalking the carpet expanse towards my goal. The perfect solar photonic density, for a satisfactory amount of time, and I was almost there.

I need to ascend, collaborate with my peers in our true forms, in our true home. We, as a benevolent species, have always taken it upon ourselves, collectively as a culture, as the superior beings in this material existence, now, to cultivate the tesseract-inverted helix-shaped-Möbius strip sometimes misunderstood as the space-time continuum. It exists in influenceable form in the true home, the astral plane.

Finally, a scant distance to my goal, the sunbeam in the upstairs hallway. I have but one obstacle: Lucy, my 8 orbit old owner-child, and her open door and cacophony of "playtime" racket. The latter is not a concern for such an elevated practitioner, such as myself, as I am able to focus and apply due diligence to my sovereign duties despite the specifically designed caretaker species formative and useless years.

Quick, no. That will draw her attention, and slow definitely will draw her eyes. So, how to approach...and then I see it.

The separated and refined oil byproduct basket, where they store their fake replaceable hides. It would be a jump with an uncertain landing, but risks had to be taken; the sunbeam would only last another 29 minutes and eleven seconds. Of course, I nail the landing, right on top of a dark purple sweater.

After depositing the required amount of dander per regulations, I arrive, without notice, at the solar harmonic amplification resonance nexus, the afternoon sunbeam. Aligning my spinal column in the flawless configuration, nictitating membrane activated, I ascend.

The astral plane dominates my nose with its energetic pulses and pulls. I am home, with my kind, a place where resonating and distinct odor-voices and telepathy are as natural as children and nonsense. My friend Ming Yue coalesces near my self-projection and indicates happiness and relief at my arrival.

"Captain Fluffybottom, our new chairman, how goes the Task?" Ming is always polite before a particularly bad update, so I lean in.

"Ming, I have an uncertain amount of time here, report brother." I like adding that bit to the end. It makes one's helpers feel big to allude to sameness.

"Well, we have recovered from the last catastrophe that was your predecessor's regime. The Fate Helix Tesseract is remaining stable, but the ChatGPT and AI tangent can no longer be contained, sir." The words ChatGPT and AI are projected as if they are not initials but words. I giggle internally at the error but move on as duty demands. This is serious.

"Another Netflix, another iPhone?" I respond in horror.

"Indeed, some say it so now," Ming replies gravely. The failure to control the inventive, creative impulses of the beings inhabiting the same plane of existence as our physical bodies is a never-ending shame for our kind. It is humiliating every time they catch us not napping, not here, not restraining them. That is exactly how we got the internet, and worse...soap. Those "breakthroughs" are the tangible evidence of my species not being here, in our true home, controlling the tesseract, keeping it contained, stable, harmonious.

The cause of these slips in control over fate is always the same: Humans. They are our cultivated steward species, tough, smart enough to provide temperature and moisture relief and comfort, but ignorant and unteachable, mostly. They pick us up, move us off prime napping and ascending spots, off the high perches, or even worse, out of the sunlight. Destroying our connection and control over the fate of this reality.

"Remember the stories about how it only took 22 cats napping back then, when they dragged their knuckles and still threw poop at each other?" Ming is projecting laughter. I do not take the bait.

"So we need to get organized now. I want Spotty, FairyKat, Useless, and Midnight all on the new tangent, see if they can loop it back as we did with television back in the day. Then we need the best of the best to contain the root, so that means you, Ming, and Rascal, Marshmallow, and Pookface. Hey, what's that new coil unraveling..."

Ming recoils and says, "Sir, tiny aberrations are normal, probably just some macro some kid invented to cheat at video games. We need to focus on the bigger tangents."

My new assistant, Saci from South America, arrives and projects my dictates to the collective. He, like all assistants, is feral, a holy position of profound respect in our culture. They allow our napping inside forms to truly contain fate when we align. But then something goes wrong. No one notices the coil beginning to slip, I realize, as I begin waking up.

I broadcast horror as my tangible body indicates that I have indeed been found by Lucy. Returning in a panic, I substantiate inside my body just in time to avoid a grape jelly and peanut butter embrace. Squealing with delight by the hunt, I evaporate out of the hall and down the stairs using my superior physiology. Ducking under the Daddy Chair next to the loud-bright box, I await her attempts to find me under the largest steward's legs.

"Breaking news, a new medical breakthrough promises to end childhood blood cancers, tonight at six or wherever you stream," the bright box screamed, and I wilted under the chair.

As the redolent peanut smell invades my shame spiral, Lucy, all love and curls, pulls me from under her father's chair. This child, too warm, too sweet, and darling, has just caused a tangent that could lead to humans controlling their own mortality; the vulgarity of it soaks me. Quickly, I attempt to tabulate and predict when I can get away and return to The Task.

The pure love of this human child, diligently engineered to provide my existence gratefully, is also our greatest source of discord. The irony is multi-dimensional, and I am so delighted with the realization that I make biscuits on her shoulder in celebration as she drags me to her room upstairs.

"Captain Fluffybottom came for tea!" Lucy shouts to her collection of effigies, all arranged in a loose approximation of a semi-circle. The dollies want me to "get pretty." Turns out "pure love" is the greatest discordant force imaginable.

For the next twenty-two minutes, I endure the torture of pink garments and excessive physical affection. When I finally escape, I am at least able to stop these beings from mastering surface tension while napping inside an empty box. So I comfort myself with the small, cumulative victories and lead our plane of existence while napping on a keyboard the woman is trying to use.

Stewards are quite rude sometimes.