There are many hardworking creatures in this world. Nurses. Teachers. Construction workers. Air traffic controllers and cat owners.
And then there is my tortie cat, Mika (Mee-kah).
Mika’s daily schedule is demanding in ways most of us could never handle. It requires discipline, stamina, and an unwavering commitment to doing absolutely nothing.
Now, before you imagine some large, intimidating feline overlord running this household, let me clarify something. Mika weighs all of eight pounds, if that. She is what you might call a weenie-queenie.
Small.
Compact.
Tiny, even.
But make no mistake — although she be small, she be mighty.
Mika is also a Libra kitty, which means she is extremely particular about absolutely everything. Food. Sleeping locations. The arrangement of blankets. The emotional quality of kibble that has been sitting in the bowl too long. Standards are high in this house.
And Mika enforces them.
Let me walk you through a typical day in Mika’s exhausting professional life.
3:30–4:30 AM – The Household Alarm Clock (Spoiler: It’s Not Mika)
Somewhere between 3:30 and 4:30 in the morning, the household becomes operational.
But let’s be clear — this is not Mika’s doing.
That job belongs to her little brother, Koji, my black cat, who apparently believes the entire house should be awake before sunrise for reasons known only to him.
Mika, however, has far more refined priorities.
While Koji is trying to wake me up (so he can chew on my feet as soon as they’re out of the bed), Mika is usually still curled up at the bottom of the bed in a perfect Tortie loaf or tight little ball, sleeping like someone who has absolutely no intention of participating in early morning nonsense.
Eventually she will emerge.
Maybe right away.
Maybe three hours later.
Maybe whenever the hell she feels like it.
Mika runs on Mika Time, and Mika Time does not care what the clock says.
When she finally saunters out, it’s slow, calm, and slightly dramatic, like a tiny queen entering the throne room.
The Culinary Standards of a Tortie
Despite the fact that there is relatively fresh kibble sitting in the bowl, Mika begins the morning complaint ritual.
Now, technically there is food available.
But Mika barely acknowledges kibble as legitimate nutrition. She might nibble on it once in a while — like someone politely tasting a cracker at a party — but that’s about it.
No.
Mika requires proper cuisine.
Specifically:
- Fancy Feast Medleys (chicken only, please)
- Delectable stew pouches
Those stew pouches, in particular, are the foundation of Mika’s entire diet and apparently the only thing standing between her and immediate starvation.
She lives for those pouches.
And she expects them on schedule.
Her schedule.
Which she does not bother to share with me in advance.
Some days she’ll eat when the morning breakfast bell rings.
Other days she’ll just stay in her fetal position on my bed and won’t even bother showing up until noon.
Because when you’re a tortie, punctuality is optional.
The Tortie Communication System
Now, Mika is not a big talker. This cat does not meow like a normal cat.
If she makes any sound at all, it’s more of a smoky little grunt, like a tiny disgruntled forest creature.
Mostly, though, she communicates through staring.
And Mika has perfected the art of staring.
Her favorite command center is a perch on the dining table that sits directly across from the kitchen counter. From there she can observe everything: the kitchen, the food bowl, me, and her little brother Koji — who is frequently the subject of her intense managerial oversight.
From this perch, Mika will stare.
She stares at me.
She stares at the food bowl.
She stares at Koji.
She stares like a tiny Tortie philosopher silently judging the entire universe.
If I am standing in the kitchen and still somehow fail to understand this very clear message, Mika escalates to physical contact. She will walk up, reach out one delicate tortie toe bean, and tap my leg like she’s politely ringing a service bell.
Excuse me, human.
Your cat is hungry.
Please correct this immediately.
Post-Lunch: The Daily Inspection Tour
After finally eating — which, again, might not happen until around noon depending on how committed Mika is to sleeping that day — she begins what I like to call “making the rounds.”
First stop: the French doors in the living area.
She walks over, slips her little head under the curtain, and peers outside like a tiny wildlife biologist.
Out there live what Mika considers the greatest mystery of the natural world:
The Big Fat Birdies.
She studies them intensely.
She dreams about them.
She contemplates their existence and what it might be like if she were ever allowed outside long enough to investigate.
Then, having completed this critical wildlife observation, Mika moves on.
Next stop: the back room — usually my craft room.
In this room she has her own basket, filled with cozy blankies.
Cat-themed blankies, naturally.
She climbs in, takes her AM grooming bath, circles like she’s calibrating the exact softness level, and begins the official Snooze Ritual.
Which is basically a nap.
A very serious nap.
We won’t hear from her again until sometime in the early evening.
Late Afternoon/Early Evening Operations
This nap can last hours.
Occasionally Mika will wake up just long enough to reposition herself, glare at Koji, or verify that the household is still functioning properly.
If I walk by, she may open one eye just enough to determine whether I am bringing food.
If I am not bringing food, I am dismissed.
7:00 PM – Existential Hunger Crisis
Despite sleeping her life away – therefore not eating – Mika suddenly acts as if she has been totally ignored all day, as if to say “Why didn’t you guys wake me up to eat??!!
She emerges dramatically from wherever she has been sleeping, goes to her perch on the dining room table, and begins “the Stare”.
If I ignore her, things escalate.
Mika will go on the hunt.
Not for mice.
No, no. That would be too normal (and gross).
She specifically targets paper and plastic. Grocery bags, envelopes, receipts — anything that makes a loud crinkly noise the moment her teeth touch it.
She knows exactly what she’s doing, too.
She’ll look directly at me while doing it like a tiny furry hostage negotiator.
Feed the cat.
Or the junk mail gets it.
9:00–10:00 PM – Bedtime
Somewhere between 9 and 10 at night, the household shuts down.
Mika returns to the bed, circles three times, and settles in like she has just completed a sixteen-hour shift at a coal mine.
She sighs heavily.
Because clearly she is the one carrying this household.
Meanwhile, somewhere nearby, Koji is probably already planning tomorrow morning’s 4:00 AM wake-up call and which of my toes he’ll chew on.
Mika will deal with that situation the same way she deals with most things in life:
By sleeping through it.
It’s a tough life.
But someone has to do it.
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Ciao,
The snarkiest cat…
Written for The Cat Whisperer Blog by Annie St. Germain, resident Cat Whisperer and chronicler at Snarky Cat Boutique. 🐾
