Today I celebrate—or at least pretend to—the third anniversary of William, that feline specimen who, rather than a pet, has ruled as a domestic tyrant. Three exact years since my boyfriend—forever lacking in practical judgment—decided that a "kitten" would be the perfect gift during the year of the Qatar World Cup. A brilliant idea, according to him; a prophecy of chaos, according to me.
William was never truly a cat, or at least not the kind the sentimental handbooks love to describe: sweet, purring, obedient. No, he chose a different path, one closer to that of a miniature medieval tyrant, conquering tiny territories and defending them with literal claws and teeth.
I remember when he arrived—a bundle of rage disguised as deceptive cuteness, an unstoppable earthquake in miniature that neither logic nor affection could ever tame. His mission was obvious: rule the house, scorn all affection, and dismantle any semblance of order. And though he’s paid dearly for his oversized ego more than once (see: his stylish cone of shame), he has never once betrayed his true nature.
Still, despite all that arrogance compressed into a few pitiful kilos, I love him. I love his brutal independence, his almost philosophical disdain for affection, his genuine contempt for basic social conventions. Loving William is an act of heroic resignation, a daily exercise in accepting another being exactly as he is: irredeemable.
So today, in honor of his third year of glorious reign, I will raise my glass (of wine, obviously) and toast—not because William deserves it (he would probably spit on the ceremony if he could), but because, in his chaotic, merciless existence, he brings a kind of unfiltered energy into my life that, secretly, I wouldn't trade for anything. Happy birthday, you little bastard.
