Last Updated on May 22, 2026 by admin
Yesterday Pickle had a single, well-formed grievance about modern furniture. Today she has additional grievances. They concern, in no particular order: the new throw pillow, the second cat’s eating speed, the time of day at which dinner is being served, and the specific quality of the late-afternoon sunbeam, which she would like to have an in-person conversation about with whoever is in charge of that. The following is a partial transcript.
On the New Throw Pillow
Pickle: It is gray. It is square. It is in my spot. I have circled it twice. I have stared at it. I have, briefly, attempted to dislodge it with a single backward kick. It is still there.
Pickle, continued: I would like to formally lodge a complaint. The previous pillow was acceptable. The previous pillow had been worked into the correct, slightly-flattened topology over several months of careful sitting. The new pillow is, in addition to being gray and square and in my spot, also too tall. I cannot see the window properly from on top of it. The bird situation outside the window is unmonitored.
Pickle, summary: The new pillow is rejected. Please remove it. I will sit on the couch arm in the meantime. The couch arm has been thoroughly destroyed by my back claws, but at least it is the correct height.
On the Other Cat’s Eating Speed
Pickle: He eats too fast.
Pickle, expanded: He inhales the food. He does not chew it. He looks up halfway through the meal and stares at me with food on his face. It is offensive. It is not the way one eats wet food in this house. I have been eating wet food in this house for several years and I have established the protocol. The protocol is: small bites, savored, in a careful rotation around the rim of the bowl. The protocol is not: vacuum.
Pickle, conclusion: He should be assigned a separate room. Or possibly a separate house. I am not unreasonable.
On the Time of Day at Which Dinner Is Being Served
Pickle: It is too late.
Pickle, with feeling: It is not five o’clock. It is not even four-thirty. It is, in some indefensible way, almost six, and dinner has not yet appeared. I have been sitting on the kitchen floor for approximately one and a half hours. I have made three distinct vocalizations, of increasing urgency. I have walked across the laptop twice. I have positioned myself in the middle of the hallway in such a way that it is difficult to walk past me without acknowledging my presence and my situation.
Pickle, escalating: I would like dinner. I would like dinner now. I do not understand what is happening in this house. I do not understand why the dispenser of dinner is currently watching what appears to be a television show about cooking, when there is no cooking happening here, in the kitchen, where I am, dinnerless.
Pickle, victorious: There it is.
On the Specific Quality of the Late-Afternoon Sunbeam
Pickle: It has moved.
Pickle, considering: I do not know why it moves. I am not an expert in the physics of solar declination. I am, however, an expert in the placement of my own body relative to warm rectangles on the carpet, and I can tell you with absolute confidence that the warm rectangle has moved approximately four inches west since yesterday at this time. This is unacceptable.
Pickle, demanding: Please fix the sun.
Pickle, lying down anyway: Fine. I will adjust my position. This is the third major concession I have made this week, and I would like it noted in the household record.
On the Question of Whether She Is Loved
Pickle: I know I am loved. I am loved because, despite the rejected pillow and the vacuum-cat and the late dinner and the moved sunbeam, I am still sitting on my person’s chest at the end of the day. I am still being scratched behind the ears. I am still being told that I am a good cat, even though I am, by some measures, a deeply opinionated cat who has made the household’s life more complicated.
Pickle, soft: I love them too. I would not be filing this many grievances with people I did not love.
Filed by Pickle. Notarized by the household. Updated weekly, or whenever something else is moved an inch. 🐾
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