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.
