National Cat Day. I don’t have a cat right now, but I’ve had a few over the years—tiny furball mob bosses who ran the property like it was their own little mafia empire. Mice? Vermin? Squirrels? Consider them disappeared. And me? I was just the loyal observer, puffing on a joint and taking notes on their feral genius.
So today, I light up and imagine my old cat Loki in the yard: whiskers twitching like radar, tail flicking like a tiny flag of death. Smoke curls around me as I remember her leaping from the fence, landing on a raccoon mid-heist, hissing like a tiny anarchist warlord. And somewhere in the clouds, my past cats nod in approval—or judgment. I can’t tell, because weed.
Cats and cannabis: both make life unpredictable. Both are sly. Both make you question every decision you’ve ever made while simultaneously feeling like the universe is applauding your existence. The vermin never stood a chance, the lawn was always safe, and I was high as the crow perched on the roof, watching the tiny empire unfold.
So here’s to National Cat Day: to the cats who’ve ruled my property, to the smoke that fuels my imagination, and to chaos in all its furry, purring glory. Bow down, vermin. The cats—and the joint—have arrived.
Keep it weird,
