There comes a time in every respectable household when one must address matters of upholstery, legacy, and completely unfair accusations.

I am, of course, speaking of the armrest of the sofa.

Now, I have been informed, by the usual unreliable human sources, that this particular armrest did not simply “wear out”. Oh no. Apparently, it was subjected to what can only be described as a long-term artistic scratching project by Snickers, one of the former managers of this household.

A bold woman. A strong woman. A woman with a clear vision for interior design.

The humans say the sofa has already been reupholstered once before. Once. As though that should shock me. Frankly, if you invite cats into a home and then provide large fabric-covered furniture at perfect claw-height, you must expect a certain level of creative contribution.

However.

Since Snickers has now gone to heaven, where I assume all sofas are made of scratchable velvet and no one says “No!”, the humans appear to believe the sofa may once again qualify for professional attention.

And this is where I must make my position very clear.

Since my official appointment on 11th of March, I have demonstrated nothing but dignity, restraint, and a deeply mature relationship with the sofa. Have I sat on it? Yes. Have I inspected it? Naturally. Have I walked across it like a queen crossing a balcony? Obviously.

But have I attached myself to the armrest like a tiny white demolition contractor?

Absolutely not.

I give you my cat’s honour, which is legally binding in all decent households and several sunny windowsills, that I shall not destroy the newly upholstered sofa. I shall not scratch it. I shall not hang from it. I shall not pretend it is a climbing wall, a personal gym, or an enemy that needs defeating at 3:17 in the afternoon.

Of course, I cannot be held responsible for any invisible mice, suspicious threads, or sudden emergencies involving one single claw that simply needed to stretch. These things happen in management.

But the sofa itself? Safe.

Probably.

So when the humans look at that poor ruined armrest and wonder who did it, I say only this, like Shaggy:

It wasn’t me.

And this time, unlike certain famous musical gentlemen, I actually have evidence.

I’ll keep you lot posted, Mrs. Cotton 🐱🐾