The Great Clean Cat-astrophe

Ah, Saturday…

A day built for indulgent lounging, belly-up sun naps, and the occasional philosophical twitch.

Or so I thought – until the cursed hum of the vacuum monster shattered the silence, and my kingdom crumbled like a stale tuna treat.

Picture this…

I’m mid-mewditation, drifting through a roast-chicken-scented dream cloud, paws twitching in bliss.

Then — bam! My sanctuary becomes a warzone.

The hooman, clearly in the throes of some seasonal madness, decides it’s time for a “deep clean.”

Deep clean? Darling, the only thing that needs cleaning is your energy.

She begins her rampage by removing every cushion I’ve ever lovingly kneaded.

She banishes the dust bunnies I’ve spent weeks raising.

She wipes away my signature fur accents like they’re some kind of mess.

“Clutter,” she says. “Health hazard,” she gasps. I call it character.

Then it happens…

The Beast awakens.

The Noisy Cloud-Sucker.

The Tail-Floof Eater.

She unleashes the vacuum cleaner.

I bolt.

First to the windowsill, then under the table, then behind the curtains.

It chases me from one end of the palace to the other, wheezing and roaring like some deranged dragon.

The audacity! The volume! The swirling betrayal!

As if that weren’t enough, she finishes her ritual with a citrus-scented candle, as though fruity fumes can mask the emotional devastation she’s caused. I’ve seen cults with less ceremony.

But let’s be honest here — hoomans don’t clean for cleanliness — they clean for control.

They fear the divine chaos of feline curation. Their rituals are noisy, citrus-scented violations of trust. If I wanted sterile minimalism, I’d nap in a vet’s office.

My sun patch is gone. My couch smells of false lemon promises. And worst of all… the crunchy leaf I’d hidden under the bed for emergencies? Vanished. A relic of personal significance, lost to the tyranny of tidying.

So tell me, fellow floofs…

What treasured artifact has your hooman “cleaned” away in the name of order?

Me? I’m still mourning that crunchy leaf. Gone, but not fur-gotten.