A blog by Smudge the Cat
Observations from the stair gate, the bedroom window, and the top of the garden fence.
Welcome to the new weekly edition of my diaries. After two weeks of daily chaos, biscuit theft, and emotional betrayal, I’ve decided to pace myself. A queen needs rest.
From now on, I’ll be delivering weekly roundups of the household’s descent into madness every seven days, starring The Golden Menace (still terrorising), The Blonde One (still clueless), The Tall One (still suffering), and The Smoky One (still the only one with a reliable treat supply).
Expect drama. Expect crumbs. Expect absolutely no respect for personal space.
Let’s begin.
🎭 Meet the Cast
The Golden Menace
A five-month-old Golden Retriever puppy with the grace of a potato and the brain of a biscuit. Obsessed with soft things, mud, and barking at absolutely nothing. Believes the world is his chew toy. I believe he’s a menace.
The Blonde One
My human. Big heart, soft hands, smells like vanilla and stress. Loves me deeply, which is the only reason I haven’t packed my bags. Occasionally competent. Frequently chaotic.
The Tall One
My other human. 6ft 3, built like a warrior, voice like thunder, patience like a saint. He used to nap. Now he negotiates with a fur ball.
The Smoky One (aka Granny)
Comes every weekend. Smokes outside (respect), sits with me in the garden, and naps like a pro. We vibe. She gets it.
The Tablet Duo
The Blonde One’s brother (Baker Boy) and his son (The Red One). They visit on Sundays, bring crinkly packets they never share, and spend the whole time glued to their screens. Loyal to the Golden Menace. Useless to me.
🐱 Smudge’s Diary: Week of 27th July – 3rd August
Mood: Slighted. Toastless. Still queen.
Sunday: They arrived. Baker Boy and The Red One (aka The Tablet Duo). My Sunday visitors. My snackless disappointments.
I heard the crinkle of packets. I saw the glint of pastries. I smelled the sugar. And yet… nothing. Not a flake. Not a crumb. Not even a sniff. The Blonde One’s Brother works in a bakery and still shows up empty-pawed. A crime against pastries. His son, The Red One has hair that matches my flame-like patches, which I consider a shared superpower. But even he betrayed me. They played ball with the Golden Menace! They gave him belly rubs. Compliments. Applause. I got ignored. Again.
They called him “cute.” “Well-behaved.” Lies. He barked at a guide dog last week. He chews socks. Even smelly ones. He’s chaos in a fur coat. And yet, they fawned. Meanwhile, I sat by the fridge corner, waiting for my ceremonial roast chicken slice. I got carried in like royalty later, but still. The injustice.
Monday – Friday: Blondie has abandoned her sofa post. Normally she perches with her laptop, radiating stress and vanilla. But this week? Gone. Something about golf. Something about Porthcawl. Something about “AIG” which I assume stands for “Absolutely Ignoring Greatness.” (That’s me, by the way.)
She’s been working long days and longer evenings. I’ve barely seen her. The Smoky One stepped in as acting monarch. She’s wise. She’s warm. She’s toast-rich. Or was.
On Monday, she left her buttered toast on the garden table. Teddy served himself. Butter dripping. Granny muttering. I watched from the fence, appalled but impressed.
He wouldn’t let her nap either. Constant nudging. Sock theft. Tea towel raids. He even ran off with her walking aid thinking it was a big chew stick. But Granny held her ground. She bribed him with gravy bones and kept the peace. I respect it. We must protect The Smoky One. She is the source of weekend treats. The Golden Menace will eventually learn where your bread is buttered best.
Midweek: When Blondie returned from her golf bunker, she insisted on walking him. Lead training, she said. I laughed. He jumps like a bucking bronco the moment the door opens. But from my upstairs perch, I saw him settle. Sniff. Focus. Until Gwen’s ginger tom witnessed him barking at a gnome. A plastic one. With a fishing rod. He barked. It didn’t move. He barked again. I’ll never live it down.
He doesn’t poop on walks. He saves it for the garden. I find this suspicious. I, of course, use the neighbour’s soft grass patch. Civilised. Refined. Lead-free. Cats are superior. End of.
Friday Night: They took him to the beach. At 9pm. The sun was setting. I was ready for bed. But I smelled the salt when they returned. Sandy paws. Happy humans. Apparently, he was let off the lead and didn’t run away. Played fetch. Then refused to run anymore. Finally, some sense.
I approve of beach trips. They tire him out. They bring silence. They bring peace. Keep going, humans. Take him daily. I’ll stay home and judge.
Saturday: The Tall One shook his head. Another toy destroyed. First the red triceratops. Now the grey rope ball. He tried to eat it. Thought it was dinner. It was confiscated. Blondie says he’s lost 700 balls already. I say he’s a menace.
He still chases me. So I get carried in like the queen I am. I still get priority ham slices. My feather teaser and scratch post remain untouched. They smell like roses. Like me. And I will not let Biscuit Breath ruin them.
Conclusion:
The Tablet Duo visited. Teddy got compliments. I got crumbs. Blondie vanished into golf. The Smoky One ruled with toast and bones. Lead training progressed. Beach trips began. Toys were destroyed. And I? I remained majestic, mistreated, and mildly toast-deprived.
Until next week,
– Smudge 🐾
If you missed the first two weeks of chaos, fire farts, and spider snacks, catch up on my original diaries here. Spoiler: I was pastryless.
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