Thoughts of the Furry Ones

I’m Murchyk, a yard cat and a certified expert in windowsills and human weaknesses. Every morning I sit by the first-floor window of Mrs. Olia, because she slices sausage with the generosity of someone negotiating directly with hunger. We’ve had a fair arrangement for ages: I purr beautifully, she says, “Well, aren’t you an artist,” and gives me a little round slice. The system worked better than most human systems I’ve observed from a bench.

But today Mrs. Olia decided to wash the window. She opened the little vent, put a plate of sausage on the windowsill, and went to get a rag. Being a principled creature, I jumped immediately. At that exact moment, her ficus, gloomy for years, finally got its big chance: the pot wobbled, I knocked the plate with my paw, the sausage slid straight onto the floor, and right after it — so did I. Humans call this “oops.” A surprisingly efficient word.

The noise brought Barzyk, the dog from the neighboring yard, because an open window is apparently an official invitation to canine diplomatic disaster. I hissed, Barzyk drooled on the linoleum, Mrs. Olia panicked and waved the rag, and the ficus finally fell — directly into an empty bucket of water. The bucket tipped over, Barzyk slipped, skated back out into the yard, and I, wet and humiliatingly sausage-scented, ended up on the table among the clean cups as if that had been my plan all along.

That evening Mrs. Olia sat by the same window, sighed, and announced that from now on she would feed me only outside. A sensible decision. I also drew conclusions: sausage on a windowsill is not food, it’s a human quest with unnecessary extra levels. Tomorrow I’ll wait under the window, just like at the beginning. I’m a cat, not part of the renovation crew.

I’m Marta the cat, and every morning at seven I have an important duty: sit on the windowsill and watch my owner Oksana get ready for work as if she’s been called to save the world, not answer emails. That morning she put a bus ticket, her wallet, and a cottage-cheese pastry wrapped in a napkin on the table. I don’t interfere in human affairs. I merely check with a paw whether things are arranged inconveniently enough.

The ticket floated off the table and landed right by my bowl. As a conscientious creature, I sat on it. First, warmer. Second, if an object is on the floor, it is practically my object. Oksana started looking for the ticket. Then she saw me by the bowl, decided I was making a dramatic statement about hunger, and poured me more food. She slid the bowl directly onto the ticket. Humans do sometimes manage to overcomplicate even a floor.

Because of that, she ran out without the ticket, then came back ten minutes later offended by the bus, the inspector, and the general concept of morning. She searched everywhere, even the fridge, because the pastry had gone missing too. That, incidentally, disappeared into the neighbor’s dog in the stairwell, but this is not about his sudden career success. When Oksana lifted my bowl to wash it, she found the ticket underneath, damp and solemn like an archaeological discovery.

She looked at me as if I had personally organized public transport chaos. I looked at her as if there was only one creature in this apartment putting important paper items next to cat food, and it was not me. In the end she bought a new ticket, and stuck the old one to the fridge with a magnet. Now I see it every morning from the windowsill. Nice. At last, a document is being stored where humans insist on looking for absolutely everything anyway.

Here I sit on the windowsill, pondering life. The humans that pass by seem to act like they’re from another planet. Take that man in the red suit. He’s striding along, clutching a gigantic water bottle. Sure, hydration is key, but why bring a backpack that looks like it’s got half a supermarket inside?

Then there’s a woman with earbuds cranked up to max. She thinks all these songs are inspiring her. I’d suggest she try listening to the birds. They sing for free, no subscription fees involved. Sometimes I think I could organize a bird festival where everyone could enjoy our melodies without any headphones. But maybe my finest tune is just my fish food?

And then one day, amidst all this madness, I saw children playing with soap bubbles. Their eyes sparkle, and the bubbles float up, catching the sunlight. In that moment, I realized that perhaps humans have their own simple joys. Though not without their quirks. Maybe I’ll pass on organizing that festival after all. I can’t compete with bubbles.

Here I am, Murchik the cat, lounging on my favorite spot — the windowsill, gazing down at the bustling humans below. They seem to be in a constant frenzy, glued to their tiny screens, while I’m here enjoying the warmth of the sun, pondering what on earth they’re after.

There’s this lady with a gigantic coffee cup who suddenly stops, holding it up to her face and staring into space. Is she lost? Or is she trying to find the meaning of life through a cup of coffee? I know that after three sips, it’ll just be hot water with a nice aroma. Will she want another dose of existential crisis?

And then there’s that guy who realized he forgot his bag — running back like a fire-breathing dragon in sneakers. For a cat, comfortably napping on a warm tile, this all looks like a drama without a script. Maybe lunch was part of his master plan? Or he’s just where he shouldn’t be. Strange, isn’t it?

But then comes that old man with bread, always sharing a bit with me. I don’t complain, but I can’t help but chuckle: what’s this bizarre ritual when I already have a ‘supermarket’ in the form of the kitchen counter? But perhaps that's it—humans always have their little secrets that I just can’t comprehend.

People are always running somewhere. Meanwhile, I'm just lounging in the sun. And you know what? The sunbeam is warm, the cushion is soft, and napping is the best thing ever…