There appears to be some confusion in my household.

Not from me, obviously.

I understand the property laws perfectly. They are elegant, practical and based on several centuries of feline common sense. My humans, however, continue to believe that “my basket” refers to the thick, fluffy object placed under the table for my alleged comfort.

How sweet.

How entirely mistaken.

The basket under the table is, I admit, visually promising. It is soft. It is warm-looking. It has clearly been purchased with optimism, hope and a complete lack of consultation. My humans presented it as though they had solved the ancient mystery of where a cat might sleep.

I inspected it once.

Naturally, I did not get in. One must never encourage overconfidence in staff.

The same applies to the cushions previously used by Spook, Snickers and Severus. I respect the senior ladies who ruled before me, and I acknowledge their excellent taste in many matters. Spook, Snickers and Severus clearly ran a competent administration. Snickers, I understand, also conducted a long-term structural review of the sofa armrest. I, of course, would never do such a thing. Any suggestion otherwise would be slander, and possibly lint.

But their cushions are their cushions. Historical artefacts, if you will. Museum pieces. I am not here to repeat the past. I am here to govern the present.

My humans, bless them, think comfort is about softness.

This is why they will never truly understand.

A proper sleeping place must meet a number of strict royal requirements. It must offer visibility, strategic value, dignity, temperature control and the possibility of making a human say, “But why there?”

For example, the high place above the piano, in the window near the ceiling, is not merely a place to lie down. It is an observation tower. From there, I can supervise the entire kingdom, monitor bird activity, judge dust levels and remind everyone that gravity is something I respect but do not obey.

The mantelpiece is another excellent post. It has height, elegance and just enough danger to keep the humans humble. When I sit there, they look at me with the wide eyes of people who have suddenly remembered that they own fragile things. This is healthy for them. It counts towards their continuing education points.

The sofa is also acceptable, but only on my blanket. Not because the blanket was put there for me, obviously. That would be too simple. It is acceptable because I have personally approved it through repeated occupation, kneading and the occasional look of deep administrative satisfaction.

Then there is the pouffe by the sliding doors.

A masterpiece.

It provides light, warmth, garden surveillance and the opportunity to look slightly disappointed when nobody opens the door to a world I am not actually allowed to enter. As an indoor cat, I take my border-control duties very seriously. I do not need to go outside to manage the outside. That is what windows are for.

So let us clarify the policy.

“My basket” means: an object purchased by humans, placed in a sensible location, and therefore deeply suspicious.

“Anything I happen to be lying on” means: royal property, legally occupied, emotionally significant, and unavailable until further notice.

There is a difference.

The humans will never grasp this fully, because they believe ownership begins with buying things. A charming theory. Completely wrong, of course. In my household, ownership begins when I lower myself onto something and close my eyes.

At that point, the matter is settled.

A chair becomes a throne. A blanket becomes an estate. A pouffe becomes a seasonal residence. A windowsill becomes a command centre. The top of the piano becomes a cloud with excellent acoustics.

And the fluffy basket under the table?

That remains available.

For decoration.

Yours, Mrs. Cotton 🐱🐾