Every morning, I, Sir Whiskerton of the Cat Tree, assume my rightful position at the top perch. It is my throne, my watchtower, my personal IMAX theater. Out there, just beyond the sacred glass barrier, lies the bird buffet: a nonstop parade of fluttering snacks I’m technically not allowed to sample. The humans call it a “bird feeder.” I call it “unrealized potential.” There they are sparrows, cardinals, and the occasional pudgy pigeon. All living their best lives, chirping about whatever nonsense birds chirp about. I stare, transfixed, tail flicking like a metronome of envy.
But let’s be honest, it’s not about hunger anymore. It’s about the chase. I know I’ll never get them (thanks, window), yet I keep watching, pupils dilating with every flutter, every peck, every scandalous wing flap. It’s like the universe invented a feathery version of social media. “Ooh, a blue jay!” Scroll. “Ah, the finch is back.” Scroll. “Wow, the squirrel’s stealing again.” Scroll. My paw twitches like a human thumb flicking through cat videos, except mine involve live-action birds I can’t touch.
Sometimes my human catches me and laughs. “Are you watching BirdTube again?” they say, sipping their coffee. I pretend not to hear, but deep down I know: we’re the same species of addict. They scroll for hearts and likes; I scroll for chirps and crumbs. Neither of us will ever be satisfied — but hey, at least my algorithm involves fresh air and natural light. Now if you’ll excuse me, the cardinal just posted a new seed dance, and I need to comment with a long, slow blink.