Month: May 2025

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Daily stories

Eurovision aftermatch

Eurovision aftermatch by cats

The apartment was filled with the groggy hum of a half-awake hoomin vacuuming and muttering to himself.

Sunlight filtered in, but the boys could tell something was… off.

Benno had climbed to the top of the bookshelf, now boldly renamed:

“The Watchtower.”

Tail wrapped neatly. Ears forward.

Eyes scanning the kingdom below like a fluffy general.

Benno: “Lohe, he’s doing it again. Cleaning. Vacuuming. Grumbling. No signs of breakfast.”

Lohe (from under the sofa): “He was up till 2:30. Eurovision again.”

Benno: “Ah yes. The Festival of Glorious Chaos.”

Benno cleared his throat, clearly preparing for an official recap.

Benno: “Let the record show: Sweden attempted to do sauna onstage. In towels. Steam effects. Buckets. Some man was ladling pretend water.”

Lohe: “Cultural and confusing. We approve.”

Benno: “And Estonia… oh, Estonia. They sang about drinking espresso, but in bizarre Italian that made no sense. One lyric was ‘molto boom boom amore spaghetti.’”

Lohe (nodding): “Profound.”

Down below, hoomin sneezed, tripped over a cat toy, and cursed quietly in three languages.

Benno (squinting): “Also, BREAKFAST was delayed by TWO HOURS.”

Lohe: “An international scandal.”

Benno: “Unforgivable. Unless ham is involved later.”

The hoomin finally noticed he was being stared at by two judges—

one upside-down under the coffee table,

the other silently looming from the Watchtower like a judgmental gargoyle.

Hoomin (yawning): “Alright, alright. Eurovision is once a year, give me a break…”

Benno: “So is breakfast. Daily. 07:00 hours. Precision matters.”

Lohe: “We tolerated the late feeding. But only because of the laser goats and the disco accordion battle.”

Eventually, breakfast was served—extra treats included as a diplomatic apology.

Benno: “Let this be a lesson. Glitter is no excuse for delay.”

Lohe: “But next year, we demand our own scorecards.”

Sunday morning ends with a full belly truce, Eurovision critiques still being debated, and one hoomin who now knows that even chaos must be punctual in the feline kingdom.

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Summer zoomies

Summer zoomies by cats Lohe and Benno

At last, a hint of summer.
The air smelled less like wet pavement and more like open windows and blooming nonsense.

The hoomin came home, dropped his bag, and expected the usual: judgmental stares from the sofa, or Benno pretending to be a slipper.
But today… something magical.

The balcony doors were open.
And there they were:

Lohe, sprawled across the sunniest tile like a royal nap mat.
Benno, belly up, sunglasses probably invisible but definitely there in spirit.

Hoomin: “Wow. You two look like you’re on vacation.”
Benno (without moving): “We are. Balcony Resort & Spa. Now serving nap all-inclusive.”
Lohe (stretching one toe skyward): “Welcome, peasant. Kindly deliver refreshments to the patio.”

Dinner was requested—and served—on the balcony.
Two bowls.
Two satisfied purrs.
One hoomin shaking his head at the ridiculousness of his life.

But just as the peacefulness hit its peak…
something stirred.

Benno twitched.
Lohe blinked.
A breeze carried a leaf across the floor.

Benno (eyes wide): “…You feel it?”
Lohe (suddenly alert): “…It’s time.”

And then—THE ZOOMIES RETURNED.

Not a warm-up. Not a lazy shuffle.
FULL-BLOWN, HYPERDRIVE-ENGAGED, FURNITURE-DODGING ZOOMIES.

Benno crab-walked across the hallway rug like he was summoning ancient chaos spirits.
Lohe launched off the balcony door frame, did a midair spin, and vanished under the bed only to reappear in the kitchen like a furry glitch.

The hoomin just stood in the doorway, eyes wide, wheezing from laughter.

Hoomin: “You haven’t done this in weeks! I thought you retired!”
Benno (mid-slide): “WE’RE BACK, BABY.”
Lohe (leaping over a shoe rack): “The sun recharges us. We have no regrets.”

One toy mouse flew across the room.
A rug was completely flipped.
A houseplant shook in fear.

Monday evening ends with flying fur, echoing paws, and one hoomin clutching his sides, gasping through laughter as summer and madness officially begin.
Let the season of chaos commence.

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Lohe tries Eurovision yoga

It was Thursday evening, and the hoomin was deeply invested in Eurovision.

The glitter. The drama. The fog machines. The questionable key changes.

He was mid-bite of a snack, judging an outfit made entirely of sequins and possibly caution tape, when—

movement.

From the bookshelf.

Not a full cat.

Not even a head.

Just… a paw.

Pointing. Slowly. Dramatically.

Hoomin (startled): “…What in the—”

Lohe (calm voice from above): “Do not be alarmed. I am transcending.”

The hoomin leaned back and squinted.

And there he was—Lohe, balanced across the top shelf like a furry deity, slowly stretching one leg skyward while staring into space.

Hoomin: “Are you… doing cat yoga? Again?”

Lohe: “Yes. This pose is called ‘The Ascending Sardine.’ Only to be performed during televised chaos.”

Benno (from the sofa): “He’s been up there for twenty minutes. He’s really into the ceiling lately.”

Lohe: “Ceilings are symbolic. They represent unlickable heights.”

Lohe extended his other paw, now looking like a feline weather vane trying to summon pigeon-shaped enlightenment.

Hoomin: “I mean, I’m watching Eurovision. You’re doing yoga. This room can’t get any weirder.”

Lohe (very seriously): “Wait for the bridge key change.”

Benno: “Or when Finland brings out the neon goats again.”

The paw slowly retracted.

Silence resumed.

The glitter on TV exploded again.

Lohe (softly): “Peace is found only in stillness… and atop Ikea.”

Thursday evening ends with synchronized chaos—onstage and on shelf—two cats meditating on melody and floor snacks, and one hoomin realizing he may never again know a truly ordinary Thursday.

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Yoga time

Lohe and Benno Cat Yoga
Lohe and Benno Cat Yoga

It was a peaceful wednesday evening.

Hoomin had just sat down on the sofa with a warm drink, ready to unwind…

when a soft thud echoed from the living room floor.

Benno had arrived.

Sprawled like a furry starfish across the carpet.

Eyes half-closed. One leg in the air. Belly fully on display.

Hoomin (blinking): “…What are you doing?”

Benno (serenely): “This is yoga. Inner peace through maximum exposure.”

Benno slowly twisted onto his back, one paw flopping dramatically to the side.

Benno: “This pose is called ‘Collapsed Loaf of Courage.’ It aligns the snack chakras.”

Hoomin: “You look like someone who lost a fight with a pillow.”

Benno (ignoring): “Observe now… ‘The Side-Flop of Introspection.’ Useful after emotional breakfast.”

He rolled again. Now his feet were straight up like aerials, tail flicking.

Benno: “And this is ‘Alert Crashed UFO.’ An advanced level stretch.”

From across the room, Lohe peeked from the top of the bookshelf.

Lohe: “You look like a pretzel that gave up.”

Benno: “Lohe. Please. This is sacred.”

Lohe: “You’re vibrating with joy because the carpet is warm.”

Benno: “…Yes. And I am one with it.”

Hoomin: “Should I get the mat?”

Benno: “No need. The floor has accepted me as its own.”

He then tucked into a loaf position, blinked slowly at hoomin and whispered,

“Now breathe deeply. And bring snacks.”

Wednesday night ends with soft stretches, theatrical poses, and a hoomin who might just believe that inner peace can be found on the living room rug—under a purring cat named Benno.

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Treat monster

It started like any normal morning.
Lohe was halfway through a casual pre-breakfast stretch, and the servant was dragging himself toward the coffee machine…

When suddenly—

“SERVANT!!”

A dramatic yowl echoed from the bedroom.
The human ran in, heart pounding, expecting something like an avalanche of laundry or Benno stuck in a drawer again.

But instead, he found Benno staring into the wardrobe.
Ears flat. Eyes wide. Tail puffed.
Clearly shaken.

Human: “What’s wrong?!”
Benno (whispering): “There’s a monster in the closet…”
Human: “…Pardon?”
Benno: “It spoke. I swear. It said…”
“No more treats for cats.”

Lohe poked his head in from the hallway, blinking.

Lohe: “Did the vacuum cleaner tell you this again? You know it lies.”
Benno: “No! It had a voice like… like the bottom of the fridge! And it hissed something about kibble rations!”

The servant tried to hold it together, but it was too late.
He burst into laughter so hard he nearly tripped over a slipper.

Human: “Benno, my dude, that was a dream. Possibly a bad snack dream. There is no anti-treat monster.”

Benno narrowed his eyes.

Benno: “…Are you SURE?”
Human: “Positive. In fact…”
He walked off and came back moments later with a tiny treat.
*“Monsters don’t deliver these.”

Benno cautiously took it, munched it, and then whispered,
“…Still gonna keep an eye on that closet, just in case.”

Lohe: “I bet it was Basil messing with him again.”
Benno: “Well, mission accomplished. I was very messed.”

Friday morning ends with mild trauma, verified snacks, and a reminder that even brave tuxedo warriors sometimes need reassurance that the wardrobe doesn’t hate cats.

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Cloud bed

It was a long day, and hoomin was ready to collapse into his sacred haven:

the bed.

Soft. Warm. Peaceful.

Except…

Benno was already there.

Sprawled diagonally across the entire mattress like a sleepy starfish in full ownership mode.

Hoomin: “Benno… buddy. That’s my side.”

Benno (without opening his eyes): “I don’t see your name on it.”

Hoomin: “You’re literally lying on my pillow.”

Benno: “It’s a good pillow. Thank you for selecting it for me.”

Hoomin: “Can I at least have the blanket?”

Benno (slow blink): “If you can lift me and not feel guilty, sure.”

Hoomin: “…You win this round.”

Lohe, watching from the wardrobe, offered commentary like a sports announcer.

Lohe: “And here we witness the age-old ritual of feline bed dominance. The hoomin, confused, circles the mattress, looking for a corner of hope…”

Benno stretched even further, one paw now across the TV remote.

Benno: “Also, if you’re staying here, I prefer quiet. No documentaries tonight. Unless it’s birds.”

Hoomin gave up.

He lay down sideways at the edge of the mattress, hugging the last corner of the blanket like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to driftwood.

Benno: “You’re very warm. Please don’t move or breathe too much.”

Wednesday evening ends with a half-perched hoomin, one victorious tuxedo, and a bed silently renamed: Benno’s Cloud.

Sleep well, human. If you dare.

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Service needed

The hoomin barely got his shoes off when he heard it—
Benno’s unmistakable shout from the balcony:

“Hoooomin! I feel emotionally weak. I require snacks! Preferably served here. I can’t be bothered to move!”

At the same time, a muffled voice echoed from deep inside the wardrobe:
Lohe: “Seconded. If snacks could arrive to Wardrobe District Level 2, that’d be ideal.”

The hoomin raised an eyebrow.
“How was your day?”

Benno: “Boring. Too sunny. Not enough drama.”
Lohe: “I tried to stare at a pigeon into submission. It ignored me. Rude.”
Benno: “Also we think the rug moved by itself.”
Lohe: “Or it was Basil.”
Benno: “Also, the plant blinked. Just sayin’.”
Hoomin: “Any plans for tomorrow?”
Lohe: “Same. But with more existential reflection.”
Benno: “And possible sock theft.”

With a sigh and a chuckle, the hoomin retreated to the kitchen.

Moments later, he returned like a culinary magician with two saucers of tuna soup —
one placed gracefully on the balcony sill, the other carefully slid into the wardrobe depths.

Purring.
Slurping.
A moment of pure peace.

Benno: “He’s learning.”
Lohe: “He may yet be trained.”

Monday afternoon ends with satisfied tummies, questionable reports, and a hoomin secretly enjoying being bossed around by two very spoiled—and very loved—cats.

Cat lounging in the cupboard
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IT Cat needs halp!

It was late. The apartment was quiet.

The hoomin was just about to unwind with a cup of tea when suddenly—

“MEEEOOOW!!”

Lohe’s voice echoed through the hallway like a feline fire alarm.

Urgent. Sharp. Non-negotiable.

The hoomin dropped his tea spoon, heart pounding.

“Oh no. Did he fall behind the fridge? Eat a sock? Start a kitchen fire?!”

He ran into the living room like a man on a mission.

Benno bolted from the bedroom at the same time, floofed and ready to throw paws if needed.

And there…

sat Lohe.

Perfectly fine.

Tail curled. Calm.

Next to the computer.

Looking deeply philosophical.

Lohe: “Good, you’re here. I have questions.”

Hoomin: “…You WHAT?”

Lohe: “How does this thing work?”

Hoomin: “…The computer?”

Lohe: “Yes. I was thinking… if you’re ever away, I may want to check out some cat videos. You know. For research.”

Benno (poking head in): “Yeah, and how do you log in to MeowTube? Is there a snack subscription?”

Lohe: “Also, what’s a VPN, and can it be used to access the good tuna channels?”

The hoomin just stood there, catching his breath, staring at them like he’d just aged ten years.

“I thought someone was dying!”, he gasped.

“I thought I’d find a tail in the toaster or something!”

Lohe (unbothered): “No, no. I just needed to understand how search history works.”

Benno: “And if there’s a way to delete ours. Just in case.”

The hoomin sighed deeply and laughed, rubbing his face with both hands.

Late Monday night ends with mild panic, tech support requests, and two very curious cats who may or may not be plotting to become YouTube stars in the hoomin’s absence.

cat sitting next to a laptop and printer
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Daily stories

Voodoo chicken

It was a slow, gray Tuesday afternoon when Hoomin stumbled home from work, weary and hungry. He dropped his bag with a thud, kicked off his shoes, and shuffled to the kitchen to make himself a long-awaited treat: a perfectly stacked chicken sandwich. The toast was warm, the mayo just right, and the chicken—ah, the chicken was seasoned to perfection.

He settled on the sofa, the plate in hand, letting the comforting hum of the apartment soothe his nerves. But just as he lifted the sandwich to his mouth, a sharp, sudden sting jolted through his stomach.

“Oof,” he grunted, placing the sandwich back on the plate.

Out of the corner of his eye—through the mirror on the door—he spotted Lohe, sitting unusually straight, eyes glowing like twin emerald lasers.

Then came the sound. A deep, rumbling chant.

“Cluck cluck goes the tasty meat,

Give it up or face defeat!

Feathers fall and spirits rise,

Offer now the chicken prize!”

The voice was loud, echoing through the room, but no one else was there. His eyes darted back to the cats—Lohe still staring, Benno now joining him, tails twitching in eerie synchrony.

Hoomin burst out laughing. “Alright, alright!” he chuckled, still clutching his aching belly. He opened the sandwich and carefully pulled out the juicy chicken, placing it ceremoniously onto two tiny saucers. The cats approached, not with the usual scramble, but with a regal grace—as if they’d just won a war.

Lohe blinked slowly. Benno gave a nod. Hoomin felt oddly… lighter.

As he sat back and munched on what remained of his sandwich—now just toasted bread and lettuce—he couldn’t help but wonder:

What else can they do with this voodoo stuff?

Could they make me dance in the buff?

Could they find my missing sock?

Or hypnotize the neighbor’s dog?

Can they read my thoughts at night?

Control my dreams, give me a fright?

He eyed the cats again.

Lohe licked his paw with perfect nonchalance.

Benno stretched luxuriously and stared straight into Hoomin’s soul.

Hoomin gulped. This was no ordinary tuesday.

Cat in the mirror with glowy eyes