Last Updated on May 23, 2026 by admin
Mortimer is eleven years old. He is a black-and-white domestic shorthair with a small white spot on his nose that, in some light, looks like spilled milk.
He has a schedule.
Tuesdays, in particular, are organized.
At five-fifty-three a.m., Mortimer arrives on the bed and presses his face into the right shoulder of his person until the alarm goes off at six. The alarm is set for six-fifteen. Mortimer is, by all available evidence, two minutes faster than the alarm in his head, and he believes the alarm is, in some sense, the result of his pressing.
At six-forty, Mortimer arrives in the kitchen and sits, exactly centered, on the floor mat. The floor mat is, in his view, the breakfast platform. The person is, in his view, the breakfast attendant.
From seven to nine-thirty, Mortimer audits the second bookshelf. The second bookshelf is, this Tuesday, in his view, incorrect. The audit is performed by sitting on the third shelf, between the Penguin Classics and the cookbooks, and looking judgmentally at the floor.
From nine-thirty to one, Mortimer is asleep on the chair he is not allowed on.
From one to three, he is asleep on the chair he is allowed on.
Three to five-thirty: window. The window is, in his view, the staff meeting. The staff are the squirrels. He is the management. Notes are taken.
Five-thirty to seven: dinner shift, which is conducted from the floor mat in a posture of patient exasperation.
Seven to nine: knee. The knee belongs to the person. The position is, in his view, contractually his.
Nine to five-fifty-three a.m.: undisclosed.
There is a small portion of the night during which Mortimer’s location is, by his choice, not on record. He returns by five-fifty-three to press his face into the right shoulder of his person.
The cycle, in his view, is the correct cycle.
The person, in her view, has stopped trying to fix it.
This is, broadly, considered the correct outcome.