My name is Poppy. I'm fat.
This is not a confession. It's an observation. Cats don't confess—we're not guilty of anything. Guilt is for humans, the ones who "forget" to pay rent or "accidentally" eat the last cookie. I, on the other paw, am fat for a very simple reason: my human keeps filling the bowl like she's training me to become a sumo wrestler.
Every morning I hear the rustle of the bag. Kibble crashes into the dish like hailstones on a tin roof. She dumps it in with both hands, humming some terrible pop song, then pats her knees and squeals, "Breakfast, Poppy!" as if I've ever once missed a meal in my life.
She calls me chunky. Chonky, sometimes, which is supposed to be cuter. I call it what it is: negligence disguised as affection.
Yes, Karen, you made me this way. I didn't claw my way into the cupboard at 3 a.m. and pour a waterfall of dry food into my own bowl. (Not saying I couldn't if I wanted to. Opposable thumbs are overrated.)
Humans always think cats don't understand them. They baby-talk us like we're stupid, when in reality we know every word. "Who's my little baby fluffball?" translates very clearly to "I'm projecting my loneliness onto you."
I get it. I do. But still—tone it down.
While she eats her toast, I chew through a mountain of kibble and watch her. My whiskers twitch in rhythm with the crumbs falling onto her lap. She thinks I'm begging. I'm not. I'm evaluating. I'm cataloguing how many bites she takes, how many sips of orange juice, how often she checks her phone.
Because the thing about humans is—they're not permanent.
Not like us. Cats stretch across centuries. Every statue, every temple, every back alley has one of us etched into its history. Humans? They blink, and they're gone.
I should know.
But let's not get too heavy on page one.
I jump onto the windowsill, ignoring her shriek about "dirty paws." Outside, the world is gray, damp, alive with traffic and pigeons. She sighs, mutters something about work, and rushes off to put on shoes. I yawn wide enough to show her my teeth, though she never notices how sharp they are.
By the time she's gone, the apartment is mine again. Quiet. Warm. Full of smells. I sprawl across the couch like a king and lick my paw with the kind of dedication she's never shown a gym membership.
She calls me lazy, but conserving energy is a survival tactic. Humans burn themselves out with endless errands, then collapse into bed as if they've done something noble. I nap through it all, and somehow I'm the useless one? Please.
And still—she has the nerve to call me spoiled.
She doesn't see the hours I spend awake at night, perched in the hallway, ears twitching at sounds she'll never hear. She doesn't notice the way my eyes track shadows that don't belong to any living thing. She doesn't know that when I stare at her for too long, I'm not admiring her bedhead—I'm counting.
Every human has a clock. Not the wristwatch, not the phone. A real clock, hanging above their head, invisible to everyone but me. It ticks. Always ticks. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast, sometimes—when they make the wrong choice—it lurches forward like a trap snapping shut.
Her clock has been steady so far. But I've seen it stutter.
And if you're wondering how I know when the hands stop moving, well… let's just say I've been to enough funerals.
Not that I cause them. Don't twist this around. Death isn't my fault. I'm just the messenger. The observer. The fat, lazy, spoiled cat who apparently has "no thoughts behind those eyes."
If only they knew.
But they don't. So I'll let them keep feeding me, keep cooing at me, keep filling my bowl until it overflows. And when the time comes—when her clock runs out—I'll be sitting right here, licking my paw, watching the hands hit zero.
Until then, I nap.