I used to think I was the one in charge. Turns out, my cat had other plans.

Every morning at 6:00 AM sharp, he taps me on the face like a tiny, furry alarm clock. If I’m five minutes late, I get the silent treatment… which in cat language is far worse than yelling.

He has a routine. A schedule. An agenda. And somehow, I’m the one who has to stick to it.

First, I am required to wake up immediately and escort him to the kitchen. There, he inspects the food bowl with the seriousness of a restaurant critic. If the breakfast presentation is unacceptable, he stares at me until I correct my mistake.

After breakfast comes patrol duty. He walks from window to window, monitoring birds, squirrels, and any suspicious movement in the yard. I am expected to follow along and acknowledge his findings, even when the major development is simply “leaf moved slightly.”

By mid-morning, he transitions into executive mode. He sits at the table next to his mug labeled “CEO of Chaos,” looks deeply disappointed in my overall performance, and reviews what I can only assume is a mental checklist: wake human, demand breakfast, judge everyone, schedule naps, repeat.

I used to think I owned a cat. I don’t. I’m employed by one.

And honestly? The benefits package is terrible. The pay is nonexistent. My supervisor yells at me, knocks things off shelves for fun, and sleeps through most meetings.

But every now and then, he curls up beside me like I’m doing an acceptable job, and I remember why I keep showing up for work.

It’s not my house anymore. It’s his company. I just live here and try to meet expectations.