At first, it seems innocent enough. You spot the neighbour’s cat strolling across your garden like it owns the place. You think, “Ah, how cute,” and maybe even give it a little wave like an idiot. Next thing you know, you’re standing at your back door at 7 AM, dutifully providing Dreamies to an animal that isn’t even yours. Congratulations. You are now employed—by the cat.
Neighbourhood cats have a special kind of power. Unlike dogs, who greet everyone with the boundless enthusiasm of an over-caffeinated toddler, cats operate with quiet authority. They don’t demand your affection outright. They make you offer it, and then they’ll consider whether you’re worthy. They establish rules you don’t remember agreeing to. They take over entire streets without a single formal announcement. And, just like any workplace boss, they maintain an air of mystery, keeping you guessing about what they actually want.
The Job Description You Never Applied For
The role of “unwitting cat assistant” comes with a range of duties. These include but are not limited to:
- Being available at all hours for door duty. The cat will sit outside your window, staring at you in a way that suggests you have precisely ten seconds to open the door before legal action is taken. Once you comply, they will decide they don’t actually want to come in. This is a test of your patience.
- Providing food despite them having their own home. The neighbour’s cat has food. You know they have food. And yet, through a carefully choreographed display of hunger—complete with plaintive meows and slow blinks—they have convinced you that their owner has cruelly abandoned them and only you can prevent feline starvation.
- Accepting their impromptu performance reviews. Unlike human bosses, who schedule annual appraisals, the neighbour’s cat delivers constant feedback on your performance. Ignored their presence? Expect a disdainful stare. Took too long to open the door? A tail flick of disappointment. Gave them inferior treats? A slow walk away, without so much as a backward glance.
- Handling urgent, last-minute requests. You’ll be halfway through something important when you hear it: the noise. A gentle but persistent scratching at your door, followed by a perfectly timed meow. The cat would like attention, immediately. You, foolish employee that you are, will oblige.
The Salary Is Non-Existent, But the Perks Are Unclear
What do you get in return for your unwavering service? Not money, that’s for sure. Instead, the cat will bestow occasional, unpredictable rewards:
- A single moment of begrudging affection. Maybe—maybe—one day, they’ll allow you the honour of scratching their head, at a precise angle they deem acceptable. Do it incorrectly and you’ll be placed on a temporary performance improvement plan (i.e., ignored for three days).
- A dead mouse. This is both a gift and a warning.
- The chance to feel needed, but never important. The cat might acknowledge your existence when it suits them. But let’s be clear: you are not a priority. If another neighbour provides better snacks, you’ll be discarded like last week’s litter tray.
The Mystery of Their Actual Home
One of the defining characteristics of a good boss is the ability to remain elusive, and the neighbour’s cat has perfected this. You think you know where they live, but do you? Have you ever actually seen them inside their supposed home? Or are they simply drifting between houses, collecting paychecks in the form of food and belly rubs?
Their real owner probably assumes they’re sleeping in a sunbeam somewhere, while in reality, they’re patrolling half the neighbourhood, maintaining an iron grip on their empire.
You Work for Them, Not the Other Way Around
The biggest sign that you’re under the rule of a feline overlord is that you keep justifying their behaviour. “Oh, he’s got such a strong personality,” you say, as the cat refuses to acknowledge you for the fourth time that week. “She’s just very independent,” you murmur, as she aggressively swipes at your shoelace for no reason. These are not excuses. These are corporate survival techniques. You have been trained.
The truth is, the neighbour’s cat is not just a cat. It is your boss. It sets the rules, enforces them arbitrarily, and demands loyalty in exchange for fleeting approval. And like any employee desperately seeking validation, you will continue to serve, hoping—just hoping—that one day, they might sit on your lap and truly appreciate you.
But they won’t. Because they’re a cat. And they’ve got a business to run.
Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.
With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.
Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.
A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.
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