Lady Coffee: Mistress of Mischief, Queen of Chaos, Void With a View
Don’t be fooled by the fluffy cuteness—behind those molten gold eyes is a demon with a PhD in mischief and a minor in hauntology. Yes, ghosts are real, and Lady Coffee doesn’t just acknowledge them—she hunts, interrogates, and studies them with all the meticulousness of a Victorian detective (if that detective was three kilos of whiskers and sharp opinions).
Listening? Absolutely not. Lady Coffee takes suggestions about as well as a cat takes a bath—she doesn’t. Cuddles are strictly by appointment only, and good luck guessing the schedule. Occasionally, she’ll subject you to an outburst of such saccharine sweetness your heart will grow twelve sizes and you’ll wonder if you’re hallucinating.
Her palate is as refined as her glare is devastating: only the finest cuisine for Her Ladyship. Ordinary kibble? A criminal insult. Treats, however, are non-negotiable—so don’t you dare run out. She’ll deliver a stink eye so withering you’ll reconsider all your life choices. Never, under any circumstances, disturb her while she’s in her house (unless you enjoy counting new scratches).
Her claws are always sharp, and yes, she will show you. She voids (with gusto). Everything entering the premises must be inspected in the sacred hallway; failure to comply means risking the wrath of Security Chief Coffee. Treats, again, but only the elite variety. Turn your nose up, darling? She invented it.
She probably was a dog in a past life—sits on command, fetches sticks, plays with balls, and even submits to the humiliation of a leash walk (albeit with Oscar-worthy reluctance). Birds? Pure, unadulterated entertainment—televised or live, she doesn’t discriminate. She’s chatty, but only when it suits her. Bubbles are evil, must be annihilated on sight. Small wardrobe cubbies? Secret lairs, perfect for plotting.
Lady Coffee aspires to greatness—one day she’ll summit Everest, or at least the curtain rail. Feather toys are essential: they must be dragged around to create treacherous obstacle courses for her chosen human. Kisses are dispensed “dog style” (sloppy, frequent, but never on demand). Dramatics? She is the drama.
Don’t even think about picking her up unless you’ve updated your will. Water is for gazing at, possibly sipping, but definitely not for bathing. At night, when you’re low, she’ll materialise—faithful and watchful, like a tiny, fuzzy bodyguard. But during the day? It’s nap o’clock, every hour on the hour (with intermissions for chaos).
Painted paw pads are the height of fashion, which is why your watercolours are never safe. Supervision is mandatory—whatever you’re doing, she’s watching, judging, probably plotting. Food tax is collected regularly—goat’s cheese, yoghurt, bread crumbs, and the occasional melon morsel. Any unattended glass of water will, inevitably, become a splash zone for her private amusement.
Nothing—and I mean nothing—outranks a Lady Coffee Investigation. Your distractions? Her primary mission. Audio books? She’ll listen, but napping is preferable. Cardboard boxes are a religion; the office chair is her throne. You may stand. Mornings are for affection, conversation, and breakfast, preferably in that order.
She’s sometimes scared because she’s so very smoll, but she’ll never admit it. Sleeping is the true meaning of life—except for night zoomies, which are non-negotiable. Bedtime for you? Attack time for her. The world? Absolutely her oyster.
