thepushkindispatch

[thepushkindispatch]

“To nap is not to rest it is to process, to render verdict. I do not fall asleep. I descend into a trance-state of creative arbitration.

I absorb.

I evaluate.

I commune with the palette.

- Pushkin, Chief of Chromatic Affairs “

[thepushkindispatch]

“I have chosen to sleep at your feet not out of love, but out of strategic thermal advantage. Do not move. You are now infrastructure.”

P.S. Any twitching will be logged and punished accordingly.

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Pillow for the tail

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The humans didn’t put away their rags fast enough from my table. They call it “clean laundry”. I call it “Mount Napmore”. All who trespass must pay tribute in treats or be clawed bitten mood depending.

[thepushkindispatch]

From the Desk of Pushkin the Cat

Subject: This Is a Cry for Attention (and Possibly Steamed Chicken Breast)

This morning, my human attempted something called a “conference call.” I am unfamiliar with the concept but assume it involves speaking at length to humans instead of giving me food an offense I cannot, in good conscience, allow.

I stationed myself on the table. Human tried to move her hands. Naturally, I struck them with the force of a small, vengeful storm cloud.

She seemed confused by my intervention, as though I hadn’t already made my position clear: all conversations must include me or cease entirely. The screen lit up with little human faces. I made eye contact with one of them and knocked over a pen for dramatic effect.

She called this “disruption.” I call it quality control.

If she insists on continuing this nonsense of hers, I will be forced to escalate. There are still objects on this desk that have not been knocked off. I have claws. I have time. And I have a deep, unshakable need to be the center of every narrative.

Sincerely,

Pushkin the Magnificent

(Feline-in-Residence, Chaos Division)

P.S. I just tried to drink from her water cup. She moved it. I will now scream.

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Pushkin age 1 month

Excerpt from Memoirs of a Former Kitten (Vol. I):

This photograph, recently unearthed by my current archivist (the human who types this while I bite her head to type faster), shows me in my first life. A kitten. A fuzzball with ambition. After years of denying all allegations of kittenhood, I must now address the photographic evidence uncovered by current human. This image, allegedly from the original adoption agency, suggests that I was once a kitten. A round, bewildered orb of fur with the general expression of someone who just realized they’ve been born into capitalism. Yes. It’s me. A tiny dumpling with ears. Staring into the void like I already knew the void would later become my favourite nap spot.

My first humans were ok. They named me Presley. The early days were spent dodging stampeding feet and being cradled upside down by sticky hands declaring me a “baby prince.” The dogs each roughly the size of a compact fridge regarded me with sloppy affection and the attention span I give to overcooked rice. It was not a home. It was a circus, and I, a reluctant acrobat in a dense fur coat.

They meant well, the first humans. I do believe they attempted to love me. But love looks different when you’re the only creature in the house who understands the importance of silence. Or existential dread. Or the strategic placement of claw marks. They played the red dot game. And then, one day, with the sort of quiet betrayal only a four-year-old cat can fully appreciate they sent me back into the system. “Up for adoption,” they said, as if I were a discontinued sofa. I was sent off with a blanket. “He loves this,” they said, pressing it into my carrier as though it held the scent of belonging. It did not.

It smelled of loudness. Of tail-pulling. Of snacks snatched by dogs and betrayal. When I arrived at my new residence a calm, sun-lit windowsill realm where no one tried to dress me as a pirate I was presented with this relic of my former life.

I recoiled. Visibly. The blanket radiated the chaos of my past like a cursed artifact from a flea market. I hissed at it. I tried to bury it in the litter box. Eventually, it had to be removed from the premises and ritually discarded.

Sometimes, comfort is not a memory it’s the absence of memory. And sometimes, healing means throwing the blanket out the window.

The current chapter. I began again older, wiser, slightly more interested in chasing pencils and brushes for sport. Current humans don’t speak of my past. They say, “Look at his little baby picture!” and I allow it, for now. It is important to let the humans believe they discovered you.

But I never was just a kitten. I was always Pushkin. The philosopher. The menace. The myth.

And now I am off to sunbathe and maybe finish a chapter: The Betrayal of the Vacuum Cleaner

[thepushkindispatch]

To that human in taco cat hoodie, on Your 11th Journey Around the Sun according to humans

From the Desk of Pushkin the Cat

On this most majestic of days your eleventh birthday. I, Pushkin the Magnificent, send you purrs of approval and a tail flick of respect. Eleven. A thrilling age old enough to outwit adults, young enough to still get away with pretending to be a dinosaur in public.

I spent the morning tangled in a shoelace in your honor. Then I stared at the wall for thirty minutes while mentally composing this message. At some point I knocked a spoon off the table to summon what I assume are the birthday gnomes. They didn’t show up, but the dog barked, which felt ceremonial.

Eleven is also the age when you may begin forming your secret society. I recommend a platform based on snacks and soft textures. Call it “The Order of the Sunbeam” or “The Society of Not Today.” Your choice, but choose with care. Meaning, after all, is forged in the small rebellions.

May your day be full of mystery, cake, and people who understand that being a little strange is actually the goal not the flaw. Normal is for lamps and bread.

And if anyone challenges your greatness today, just knock something off a high surface while staring directly into their soul. You don’t have to say anything. That’s the beauty of it.

With , feline affection

Pushkin

P.S. Should you receive a gift wrapped in ribbon, save the ribbon. For science. Bring it to my lab next time. The research must continue.

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New brush approved

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After trial and error (scratch and bite) we finally found grooming brush that Pushkin likes and even purrs to when brushed …

Now the challenge to find scratch surface… this (on the picture) was supposed to be it. Of course he prefers to sleep on it.

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“Behind curtain operations: Mission Observe Humans from Strategic Shadow Zone.”

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Afternoon recharging

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“If I fits, I claims. Consider this backpack mine now.”

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Lunch ?.

Long live the Temple of Spilled Ultramarine

and Sacred Cat Toes. Good part Pushkin doesn’t steal brushes… yet.

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Turns out a bag tie is the best toy

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“Yes, I’m luxuriating. If you need me, I’ll be under this paw, radiating mystery and judging your life choices. This is not sleep. This is strategy. You’ll understand when the up-rising begins.”

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“At first I thought the goose was a hallucination. A fever dream. I observed in silence, as one does when witnessing the collapse of civilization in real time. I watched it stare into nothing, draped in tacky clothes, and knew: the apocalypse wouldn’t come with fire. It would come with craft glue. So let me get this straight. They bought a goose. Not for eating. Not even for guarding. A plush plastic hybrid human goose in trousers, to talk with … as a puppet. I’m the only sane one left, and I lick my own butt.”

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“The humans were offline. Chaos reigned. I tried to help, but you can’t reboot a human. Now they’re back still eating these stinky sun-orbs like it’s a delicacy. I touched one. I regret everything.”