Satisfaction
For a cat,
satisfaction means three square meals,
a sunbeam that arrives on schedule,
a comfortable place to sprawl with theatrical indifference,
and a scratching post positioned like a penthouse office
overseeing the daily collapse of squirrel civilization.
Katya had earned her afternoon.
She stretched across the windowsill like a queen draped over her kingdom, her tail a punctuation mark announcing that all business was temporarily adjourned. The world chased headlines, stock tickers, and breaking news. Katya chased none of them. She watched them parade past beneath her whiskers.
Gina was safe now, rescued from the sort of doom that clung to people the way static clings to sweaters. One life untangled. One impossible knot patiently picked apart.
That left the next file.
A Wall Street stockbroker had floated to the top of the pile—a man whose confidence had dropped faster than a meme stock after the internet found a newer distraction. His portfolio looked like someone had mistaken it for a scratching post. Every financial channel had an opinion. Every pundit claimed they'd predicted today's market wobble all along. Funny how prophets always arrive after the flood.
Katya considered her options.
She could investigate his investments.
She could investigate his enemies.
Or, far more likely, she could investigate why every human insisted on making catastrophes so unnecessarily complicated when half of life's problems could be solved with a nap, a snack, and refusing to answer emails after sunset.
Cats understood asset allocation.
Keep your naps diversified.
Never chase laser pointers you can't own.
And always maintain sufficient liquidity—in gravy.
Katya herself was prosperity incarnate. She wasn't merely living her best life; she was a velvet cloud that had declared gravity optional. She drifted from cushion to windowsill the way a billionaire drifts from yacht to yacht, except with considerably better balance and fewer tax lawyers. Her purr was an idling luxury engine that ran exclusively on tuna and compliments. Every stretch looked less like exercise than a ribbon deciding to become a living creature. If confidence had fur, it would borrow Katya's.
She yawned with the majestic seriousness of a lion addressing parliament.
Determining her strategy would be half the fun.
The other half would be watching bewildered humans discover they'd been looking at the wrong numbers all along.
In the meantime, there were priorities.
"I'm going to see if Tiki has caught us some lunch," Katya murmured.
Markets could wait.
Fresh fish had opening hours.
