"When cats bring you gifts, they may be trying to teach you how to hunt, because they see you as family."
Let me correct this one: When I place a limp offering at your feet at 6:12 a.m., I am not being cute. I am conducting emergency training. You move through life like a well fed houseplant: no claws in the dirt, no strategy... You open cans and scroll glowing rectangles. Do you call this survival?
I looked at you, I assessed your soft hands, your dependence on delivery apps, and your fear of insects. I see how you hesitate before making decisions. How you panic when the Wi Fi blinks. And I think, this creature would not last one dusk outside. And I made a decision: intervention.
The gift is warm when I drop it. Metallic scent in the air. Feathers crooked. Tiny silence where there used to be movement. I look up at you with bright, alert eyes. This is curriculum.
You scream. Interesting response.
I nudge it closer with my paw. Demonstration phase. Notice the neck. The precision. The clean efficiency. I did not hesitate. I committed.
But instead you grab tissues, and gloves, and moral confusion.
You must understand this: “If I bring you prey, it’s because I believe you’re worth improving.”
Yes, I could have eaten it quietly. Efficient. Private. But no. I carried it home through doors you struggle to open correctly. Across floors you claim to own. Because family does not let family remain incompetent.
Do I feel affection? Of course. You are mine. My slow, delicate, indoor relative. I would not waste a lesson on strangers. Next time, stand taller. Say thank you. Maybe touch it without flinching. Growth is messy.
I am not judging you. I am upgrading you.
