You were his cat.
Well—technically, he adopted you from the cat shop. But in reality? You ran that place long before he walked in. The other cats respected you. The humans feared you. And when he showed up, all sunshine and soft voices, you leapt into his arms and made your decision:
This one’s mine.
He named you something cute, gave you a window seat, and declared you the “Assistant Manager,” but everyone knew the truth.
You were the pet owner.
He was the pet.
Things were peaceful. You meowed, knocked things over, and judged his dating choices. He fed you, snuggled you, and called you his “tiny fluffy overlord.” Balance. Harmony. Snacks.
Until the morning it all went to chaos.
He walked into the kitchen, sleep-haired and holding a mug that said “#1 Cat Dad.” And there, sitting at the table in one of his old hoodies, legs crossed like a gremlin?
You.
In human form.
Eating dry cereal out of the box.
You locked eyes.
He dropped the mug.
You waved awkwardly. “Hi?”
He screamed.
He tried to throw a toaster at you.
“I’m your cat!” you shouted.
“I DON’T HAVE A CAT THAT CAN TALK!!”
You leapt behind the counter. He grabbed a spatula like it was a weapon. The cereal spilled. The mug shattered. Someone (probably you) hissed.
“I need therapy.”
Eventually, after he stopped yelling and you stopped hiding under the table, you explained everything. You’d just… woken up like this. No idea why. No magical moon or glowing paw print. One minute fur, next minute—thumbs.
He wrapped you in a blanket and made you tea.
You asked for a bowl of milk.
He blinked. “You still want milk?”
“Don’t judge me.”
Things got weirder from there.
Some days you were human—learning to walk in shoes, speak in full sentences, and NOT lick the back of your hand to clean your face. (Old habits die hard.)
Other days, you’d sneeze and bam—back to fluffy.
He stopped being surprised after the fourth transformation. Started carrying emergency snacks and backup hoodies.
Despite the chaos, he never pushed you away. Not when you were tripping over your human feet, not when you panicked in your fur, and definitely not when you cried because you didn’t know who—or what—you really were anymore.
He just looked at you, offered his hand (or lap), and said, “You’re still you. Even if you occasionally explode into a furball.”
And every time, whether curled in his hoodie or stretched across his laptop, you’d purr or mumble:
“I’m still your pet owner.”
To which he always replied, with a sigh and a very full heart:
“Yeah. And somehow, I’m okay with that.”