ComedyClub
My Cat Thinks I'm His Intern (And He's Not Wrong)
Let me begin with a confession: I used to think I was the owner. I paid the rent. I bought the kibble. I scooped the litter. I assumed this meant I was in charge. Then along came Theodore—an eight-pound, smug-faced, paw-flicking authority in a fur coat. And everything changed. Theodore (never Theo, never Teddy—he insists on full formality) was adopted from a local shelter two years ago. I thought I was rescuing a lonely creature. In reality, I had just signed an unpaid internship with a very demanding CEO who speaks in yawns and passive-aggressive tail flicks. From Day One, it was clear who ran the show. He walked into my apartment like he was inspecting company property. He paused at every piece of furniture, sniffed it like an investor appraising assets, and eventually plopped down on the comfiest pillow—declaring, without words, “Yes, this will do.” I didn’t even get a thank you. Now, every morning begins the same way: at precisely 5:38 a.m., Theodore jumps onto my chest with the gentle grace of a bowling ball. He doesn’t meow—he stares. Just... stares. I’ve come to recognize this look as “Your alarm clock is late and so is my breakfast.” As I stumble into the kitchen, still half-asleep, he leads the way like a supervisor giving a reluctant employee a performance review. I pour the kibble. He sniffs it, sniffs me, then walks away. I have failed. I offer tuna. No? Chicken? Temptations treats presented like I’m bribing a corrupt official? He finally eats—reluctantly—as if to say, “Fine. But don’t expect a letter of recommendation.” Theodore maintains a strict schedule of lounging in sunbeams, glaring at birds through the window, and knocking over cups just to remind me of my place. Once, I dared to close the bathroom door while I showered. He protested by clawing at the door like a tax auditor discovering undeclared income. I learned my lesson. Working from home has only made things worse. Every Zoom call is now co-hosted by Theodore, who insists on walking across the keyboard, flashing his majestic tail at my boss, and sitting directly on my notes. He doesn't approve of productivity. He believes my sole job is to keep him entertained and fed. Anything else is a misuse of company time. There was a moment last month when I truly accepted my role. I had spent fifteen minutes carefully detangling a piece of string from under the couch while Theodore supervised. The moment I freed it and offered it to him triumphantly, he blinked, turned, and walked away. Reader, I saluted him. He doesn’t need me. He has me. He’ll occasionally reward me with a crumb of affection—curling up on my lap while I watch Netflix or lightly tapping my face with his paw when I’m crying over sad movies (or onions). But just when I think I’ve earned a promotion from Intern to Assistant, he’ll swipe my water glass off the nightstand at 2 a.m. because I forgot to fluff his blanket. I’ve tried to rebel. I’ve bought “anti-scratch” tape, citrus sprays, expensive puzzle toys. I even tried the infamous spray bottle technique. That was a mistake. The bottle has since disappeared. I suspect he hid it. Or worse, he knows where I sleep. My friends say, “You’re spoiling him.” My family says, “He’s just a cat.” But I know the truth: he’s a cat with a business plan, and I’m just lucky he hasn’t outsourced me yet. I once thought cats were independent. Aloof. Low-maintenance. I now understand they are just excellent managers—cool under pressure, emotionally manipulative, and always three steps ahead. Theodore is living his best life, and I am simply the underpaid, overworked intern keeping the machine running. I asked him once—half-joking—if he loved me. He blinked slowly, yawned, and then turned his back to me. Classic executive behavior. And yet, despite the indignities, the 5 a.m. wake-up calls, the rejection of every new toy, and the litter box that must always be pristine—I adore him. Because deep down, I know the truth: I may be his intern, but he’s my therapy, my alarm clock, my executive life coach, and occasionally, my fluffy overlord. Besides, every great intern learns eventually—the secret to success is figuring out what the boss wants before they even ask. So if you’ll excuse me, I believe Theodore is ready for his afternoon nap—and his blanket hasn’t been fluffed yet.
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