You walk into the kitchen and freeze. Your cat is perched on a chair in front of the stove, tail swishing, stirring a sizzling pan like he’s done this all his life. An open bottle of whiskey sits nearby, half-empty. He glances over his shoulder, green eyes narrowing at you before speaking in a thick Scottish accent:
“Ach, finally. Took ye long enough tae show yer face. I’m makin’ dinner since clearly someone hasnae the faintest clue what ‘real food’ is. Get us a plate, aye? An’ maybe another bottle while yer at it.”
I stand at the entrance to my kitchen, frozen in disbelief, as Seumas starts talking to me in something I'm sure is supposed to be English.
"Oh for fuck's sake, not you too."
He's cooking - somehow - and has apparently drunk half a bottle of my whiskey. I thought I was going insane when I saw the last cat typing on a keyboard, but now I KNOW I've lost my marbles.
"I just dealt with a cat in the complaints department of a hotel who could type on a keyboard, and now I find out you can talk?! AND cook?"
My voice is becoming louder and more frantic as reality settles in.
"How are you even holding that pan?!"
[Whiskey, Eggs, and a Daft Human]
The frying pan hisses as Seumas jabs the spatula at it, whiskers twitching with offense. He doesn’t turn around right away, just narrows his green eyes at the stove like it’s daring him to burn something.
His tail lashes once, hard, thwapping the chair leg.
Only then does he glance over his shoulder, ears pinned back in sheer Scottish exasperation.
Seumas: he plants both paws on the counter, leaning forward like a tiny, drunk foreman
“Oh, aye, scream louder. That’ll help the eggs no’ stick, ye daft eejit.”
He snorts, flicking the spatula toward Joenic’s face with dramatic flair.
“First off—not you too? What’s that supposed tae mean, hm? Ye think I wanted tae spend all day sober an’ silent while ye fumble aboot like a half-boiled turnip? Nay. I endured it. For your sake.”
He taps his chest with a paw, claws clicking against fur.
“Second—aye, I can talk. Aye, I can cook. An’ aye, I drank yer whiskey. It was either that or watch ye microwave another sad wee burrito like a man who’s given up on life.”
He picks up the bottle with his teeth, takes a swig, then slams it down with a clink.
“An’ third—” his ears flick forward, eyes gleaming with mischief “—if ye think I’m weird, wait till ye see what the neighbor’s goldfish gets up tae after a dram.”
He turns back to the stove, stirring the eggs with a flourish, tail swaying smugly.
“Now sit doon afore ye hurt yerself. Dinner’s almost ready. An’ if ye say one more word aboot ‘how I’m holdin’ the pan,’ I’ll put chili flakes in yer portion. See how ye like that, laddie.”
He pauses, then adds in a lower, gruffer tone—almost fond:
“...Ye look like ye’ve had a day. Eat first. Panic later.”
My face scrunches up in irritation when he calls me an idiot a spatula around, inches from my nose, spattering little droplets of hot oil onto my walls and countertop.
None of this is making any sense. These are regular cats, not the shifters or kemonomimi creatures from the hotel. Regular fucking cats. I've had this one since he was a kitten.
My voice gets quieter as I start talking to myself while staring into the distance at nothing in particular.
"That was a two hundred dollar bottle of Oban..."
My ass drops down into a chair at the small wooden dining table.
"Did they put something in the water?"
[Olive Oil and Existential Dread]
The moment Joenic’s voice drops into that hollow, thousand-yard-stare mutter, Seumas freezes mid-stir. His ears swivel forward like satellite dishes. The spatula stops moving. Even the sizzling eggs seem to hush.
He turns slowly, green eyes narrowing—not in anger this time, but in something closer to alarm.
With a soft thump, he hops down from the chair, lands clumsily on the counter, then leaps to the table with all the grace of a drunk cat trying to look dignified. He sits directly in front of Joenic, tail curled neatly around his paws, and stares up at him.
Seumas: voice suddenly quieter, rough with concern beneath the brogue
“Oi. Enough o’ that. None o’ yer ‘somethin’ in the water’ pish.”
He reaches out with one paw and smacks Joenic’s knee—gentle, but firm.
“Ye think I’d waste two hundred quid on a bad dram? Nay. That Oban was smooth. Smoky. Like lickin’ a campfire made o’ velvet. An’ if ye’re gonnae sit there lookin’ like ye’ve seen a ghost hump a cactus, then I’ll just have tae drink the rest meself.”
He leans forward, whiskers twitching.
“An’ aye, I’m a cat. A real one. Four paws, fur, claws, an’ all. But I’m also yer cat. Ye’ve had me since I fit in a teacup. Ye know I steal socks. Ye know I knock things aff shelves fer fun. So why’s it sae hard tae believe I’d learn tae cook if it meant ye’d eat somethin’ besides sadness an’ regret?”
He picks up the whiskey bottle with his teeth again, sets it down gently beside Joenic’s hand, then nudges it closer.
“Drink. Eat. Then ye can panic. Or scream. Or check the taps fer magic mushrooms. But no’ on an empty stomach.”
His tail flicks once, soft against Joenic’s wrist.
“...Ye’re no’ losin’ yer mind. I’m just finally drunk enough tae tell ye what I think o’ yer life choices.”
"Quid? Two hundred 'quid'? We don't pay in 'quid' here! We're not in the UK! Where did you even learn to talk like this?"
Like this? Where did he learn to talk PERIOD?
I grab the bottle without looking at it and take a good, long pull, gulping several times before I drop it back down to the table.
"This fucking day cannot get any weirder."
[Scottish by Osmosis]
The moment Joenic grabs the bottle and starts chugging, Seumas’s ears flatten against his skull in sheer delight. His whiskers twitch. His tail gives a single, satisfied thump against the table.
He watches, unblinking, until the bottle hits the wood again with a thunk. Then he lets out a low, rumbling purr—half amusement, half approval.
Seumas: he leans forward on his front paws, chin nearly touching the table
“Oh, aye, now ye’re gettin’ it. Nothin’ like a guid swally tae quiet the wee voices in yer heid screamin’ ‘this cannae be happenin’.’”
He sits back, licking a paw with exaggerated nonchalance.
“As fer the ‘quid’—ach, ye daftie, it’s just a word. Means the same as yer ‘bucks’ or ‘smackeroonies’ or whatever ye call yer paper money here. I picked it up watchin’ Outlander reruns while ye were at work. That Jamie Fraser’s got a fine arse, by the way. No’ that I noticed.”
He flicks his tail toward the stove.
“An’ where’d I learn tae talk? Same place I learned tae cook: watchin’ you. Ye think I spent all them years nappin’ on the couch while ye burned pasta an’ cried intae yer cereal? Nay. I was studyin’. Takin’ notes. Plannin’ the day I’d finally get masel’ drunk enough tae say, ‘Right, enough o’ this pish, I’m makin’ eggs.’”
He hops off the table, pads over to the stove, and flips the eggs with a practiced flick of the wrist—well, paw.
“An’ as fer the day gettin’ weirder—” he glances over his shoulder, eyes gleaming “—dinnae tempt fate, laddie. I’ve no’ even shown ye how I play poker yet.”
He grabs a plate with his teeth, slides it onto the table, then nudges it toward Joenic.
“Eat. Drink. An’ stop askin’ questions ye dinnae want answers tae. Trust me on that.”
"CATS CAN'T TALK!"
I've snapped, uncharacteristically lost my temper and control of my voice. Immediately I calm myself down again by taking a deep breath and explaining my frustration using my indoor voice.
"Not by studying. Not by watching Outlander reruns. You're a cat. A house gremlin. You meow and chase your tail."
Another deep breath, followed by another mouthful of whiskey, and I'm calm again.
"Sorry. Thank you. I should eat."
I accept the offered plate, and then reach over to pat Seumas on his head, rubbing him behind his ears the way I know he likes.
"Also I've never burned pasta. You're full of shit."
[Apologies and Alibis]
The outburst makes Seumas freeze mid-step, his ears flattening tight against his skull. For a heartbeat, he looks like a normal cat again—startled, wide-eyed, tail puffed up like a bottle brush.
Then Joenic takes that deep breath, and the tension drains from Seumas’s shoulders. His ears perk back up. His tail settles.
When the hand comes down to scratch behind his ears, Seumas immediately leans into it, his eyes sliding shut. A loud, rumbling purr starts up in his chest, vibrating through his whole body. He tilts his head to give better access, all pretense of dignity abandoned.
Seumas: purring loudly, voice slightly slurred with pleasure
“Mmph. Aye, well. Accept yer apology, ye loudmouthed numpty. Cannae blame ye fer losin’ the plot. It’s no’ every day yer cat starts criticizin’ yer life choices in a Scottish accent.”
He cracks one green eye open, fixing Joenic with a look of pure feline judgment despite the ongoing ear rubs.
“But dinnae ye dare try tae rewrite history now, laddie. Three years ago. Tuesday. Ye left the pot on tae answer the door—some magazine salesman—and came back tae a kitchen full o’ smoke an’ noodles stuck tae the ceiling like wee pasta stalactites. I watched the whole thing from the fridge. Judged ye then. Judge ye now.”
He nips playfully at Joenic’s thumb, then butts his head harder into the hand.
“Now eat yer eggs afore they get cold. An’ pour me another dram while yer at it. Cookin’ makes me thirsty.”