The Art of Home Alone

Greetings, fellow fluff-balls and paw-some Mingles!

The fabulous ginger with a tail as majestic as a feather duster and whiskers tuned to detect cheese slices being unwrapped from across the house is back to share with you another day of goof and mischief. As I write this, I am perched regally on the living room windowsill, gazing dramatically into the distance like the mysterious heroine in a soap opera. Why? Because my hoomans... have abandoned me.

Okay, okay, not abandoned exactly. They’ve gone to LA for the weekend to attend a concert by some famous Korean singer-rapper-dancer. Apparently this human can sing, rap, dance, and melt hearts all at once—like some sort of magical unicorn with a microphone. (Frankly, I do the same thing every time I knock a glass off the table, but whatever.)

But worry not, my adoring fans. I am not alone. No, no. I have been left in the company of him. The Pekingese.

You know the one. Fluffy, white, stubby legs, and an ego the size of a Great Dane. He thinks he’s royalty because he once had an Instagram post with 34 likes. Pfft.

His name is Brunsnuggle Furrypaws, but we just call him Bruns.

At first, I was horrified. The hoomans were convinced we’d be bored, moping around, staring at walls, maybe crying softly while listening to sad cello music. (Honestly, the drama of it all.) But let me tell you, they greatly underestimated our flair for entertainment.

Friday Night: Operation Freedom Fluff

The moment the front door clicked shut, we gave each other a suspicious stare. A truce was silently agreed upon (probably because he was too distracted by the smell of leftover chicken in the trash).

I launched myself onto the forbidden kitchen counter. He barked in protest. I knocked over the empty cereal box. He tried to catch it mid-air and fell into the recycling bin. I laughed so hard I almost lost a life.

Saturday Morning: The Great Zoomie Games

The living room rug became our racetrack. I zoomed figure-eights around the sofa legs while Bruns (who has the turning radius of a toaster) skidded into the coffee table. He barked, I meowed, and together we created a symphony of chaos.

Uncle Johnny, our weekend caretaker, popped in to check on us. He’s kind, smells like peanut butter, and leaves the TV on for “background enrichment.” I like him. He refills my bowl exactly to the top, not a kibble less. He even brought us treats. I purr loud enough to rattle the windows when he visits.

Saturday Night: Movie Marathon Madness

I found the remote. Don’t ask how. (Cats don’t reveal their secrets.)

Bruns and I snuggled—yes, snuggled—on the couch. I begrudgingly admit he makes a decent heating pad. We watched a movie about a dog that gets lost and finds its way home. I may have shed a tear. (Or it could’ve been a stray piece of fur in my eye. Who knows.)

Sunday Morning: Existential Reflections

Curled up on my favorite blanket, I finally let myself feel the feels. I miss my humans. I miss their silly voices and the way they always say, “Who’s a fluffy muffin?” (It’s me. I’m the fluffy muffin.)

The house feels a little too big without them. A little too quiet (except when the Furrypaws snores like a clogged leaf blower). I know they’re off enjoying some mind-blowing choreography and heartfelt lyrics in a sold-out LA venue, but I hope they know I think about them. Especially when I sit dramatically in the window, looking like a Victorian widow waiting for her beloved sailor to return.

Sunday Night: Homecoming Prep

We sense the time is near. The house must be cleaned of all evidence of our wild weekend.

I chase the dog’s fur tumbleweeds under the couch. He tries to lick the cereal stains off the floor. We’re not perfect, but we are determined.

I even bathe him. Well, I licked the top of his head once before he sneezed on me. Close enough.

Final Thoughts from a Fluffy Philosopher

Being left behind isn’t so bad when you have a frenemy to bicker with, an uncle who knows how to operate a can opener, and a heart full of memories of your favorite hoomans. I know they’ll be back soon—with stories, souvenirs, and hopefully tuna.

Until then, Bruns and I will hold down the fort. Maybe even share the window perch (but only if he promises to stop farting in his sleep).

P.S. I heard my hoomans trip back took longer than planned—silly planes and their delays. But none of that matters now. You’re home, safe and sound, and my little cat heart is full again. I may have acted cool when you walked through the door… but the truth is, I was counting the minutes. I missed you more than I miss the warm spot on your pillow. Welcome home, hoomans!