I was born under mysterious circumstances in the cardboard shadows of Mama Mia's Deli, a place that smelled like pepperoni and betrayal. My mother was a streetwise tabby named Clementine, who taught us the three pillars of feline survival: beg strategically, nap aggressively, and never trust a squirrel.
It was a humble start. But I always knew I was meant for something more luxurious.
At the tender age of seven months—when my whiskers had filled in and I’d mastered the art of the soulful gaze—I made my move. I scaled the fence behind the deli and found myself in a garden filled with wind chimes and indecisiveness.
Enter Lorraine.
She smelled like lavender and emotional vulnerability. Her socks had embroidered cats. Her fridge had three kinds of cheese and one very expired yogurt. She was perfect.
One meow, a tail wrap around her ankle, and a dramatic flop onto my side—voilà! I had secured a human.
She named me Muffin. An abomination, but I tolerated it. Why? Because Lorraine provided luxury. Heated blanket luxury. Tuna steak luxury. Netflix-and-cuddles luxury.
But the world is vast. And my curiosity, insatiable.
It was a Wednesday. Lorraine was busy burning a casserole that didn’t deserve to live. The smoke alarm was yelping. My nap was disturbed.
So I left.
I hopped fences, dodged sprinklers, and leapt gracefully over an angry chihuahua named Doug. Then I found him.
Jeremy.
Bearded. Flannel-clad. Eternally tired. His backyard smelled like eucalyptus and imposter syndrome. I knew the type—millennial. Emotionally damaged. Creatively constipated.
A perfect mark.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, kneeling down with a cautious smile. “Where’d you come from?”
I meowed. It was the kind of meow that said, "My soul is weary and my bowl is empty."
He melted. Moments later, I was in his minimalist living room, on a handwoven throw pillow that probably cost more than Lorraine’s entire couch.
“Professor Pawsworth,” he said, naming me with unearned confidence.
Sir. Please. I have a name. It’s Muffin. Unfortunately.
But I allowed it. Because with Jeremy came luxury of a different kind: salmon lox. Window perches. Experimental jazz at inappropriate volumes. I was now living a double life.
And I liked it.
Living a dual life isn’t as easy as it sounds.
Sure, I had the best of both worlds—two beds, two food bowls, two personalities to perform—but it required cunning. Precision. Theatrics.
I began to schedule my days meticulously:
8:00 AM – 2:59 PM: Lorraine’s. Morning sun on the kitchen floor. Tuna. Naps in her laundry basket.
3:00 PM – 10:00 PM: Jeremy’s. Lox. Instagram photoshoots. Existential discussions about fonts.
Nighttime: Freelance chaos. Roaming. Reflecting. Taunting Doug the Chihuahua.
One time, I got greedy and tried to stay for dinner at both houses. Mistake. Salmon on a full stomach? The result was dramatic. And projectile.
Lorraine blamed the rug. Jeremy blamed gluten. I blamed capitalism.
Still, I adapted.
Lorraine, like many humans, became suspicious when I began to return smelling like beard oil and soy candles.
“I think Muffin’s been… somewhere else,” she said, frowning as she sniffed my fur.
I feigned ignorance. Coughed. Licked my butt. The usual.
But then came The Tag Incident.
She clipped a tag to my collar: “If found, call Lorraine. Muffin.”
Muffin. Again. It was the final straw.
I tried everything to get rid of that tag. Rolled on the pavement. Got into a fight with a pigeon. At one point, I played dead in the basil pot.
No luck.
I showed up at Jeremy’s and immediately regretted it.
He picked up the tag. Read it. Froze.
“Muffin?” he said, as if he’d just learned I was a Russian spy. “Who… is Lorraine?!”
It was like a soap opera, only with more cat hair and less logic.
That night, I vanished into the shadows.
Humans are surprisingly adept at emotional catastrophes.
It didn’t take long for Lorraine to put up missing posters. Unfortunately, she printed them on neon pink paper and laminated them like a boss. One fluttered right onto Jeremy’s front gate.
He recognised me immediately. Of course he did. I’m majestic.
So he did what any logical, betrayed millennial would do—he called Lorraine.
And so it was that I returned from an alley brawl with a raccoon named Dennis to find the two of them standing in Jeremy’s living room, glaring at each other.
“This is my cat,” Lorraine said.
“Wrong. My cat,” said Jeremy.
“He’s Muffin.”
“He’s Professor Pawsworth.”
They looked at me.
I blinked.
They started arguing about food preferences, grooming habits, and who I loved more. At one point, Jeremy accused Lorraine of overfeeding me.
I took offense. I am not overfed. I am luxuriously rotund.
Eventually, after much shouting and one accidental wine spill, they came to an agreement.
They would share me.
Like divorced parents of a very fluffy child.
At first, I was skeptical.
Shared custody? Scheduled visits? What was this—family court?
But soon, I realized: this was the best of both worlds… with structure.
They bought me matching beds. Coordinated toys. They even synched my Instagram feed (@DoubleLifeMuffin, 67k followers and counting).
Lorraine focused on wellness—organic kibble, lavender baths, yoga mats.
Jeremy focused on aesthetic—photoshoots, indie playlists, and once, disturbingly, a tiny fedora.
I thrived.
They took turns hosting "cat nights," where I lounged on throw blankets while they discussed whether I was more “Pisces” or “Libra.”
I am clearly a Leo.
My Instagram blew up.
A video of me pouncing on a Roomba while wearing a detective hat went viral. I became the face of a vegan pet treat brand (I don’t even like kale). A fan sent me a custom scratching post shaped like the Eiffel Tower.
Lorraine started calling me “her little influencer.” Jeremy suggested merch. I hissed.
Meanwhile, I developed a feud with Doug the Chihuahua. He barked. I ignored him. One night, I knocked over his gnome statue in an act of quiet revenge.
Life was perfect. Chaotic, but perfect.
You’d think this tale ends there, right?
Nope.
Last week, I discovered something… troubling.
At precisely 5:37 p.m., while hopping into a stranger’s garden to chase a suspicious butterfly, I was spotted.
“Hey, it’s Biscuit!” a teenage girl screamed. “You’re back!”
Biscuit?
She picked me up. Kissed my head. Fed me deli turkey.
She said I used to visit her house every Thursday afternoon and then… just stopped.
My mind reeled.
Had I been running a triple life?
Had I once been Biscuit? Was I also Sir Archibald Fluffington III, Muffin, and Professor Pawsworth?
I meowed in existential confusion.
But then she offered me rotisserie chicken.
I stayed.
Today, I reside in three homes, maintain one brand, and live a life of utter luxury.
Humans think they run the world. Adorable.
But really?
It’s run by cats like me. Quietly. Quirkily. Masterfully.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my whiskered wanderings, it’s this:
Home isn’t a place. It’s where they feed you.
And darling… I am always fed.
