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.