Editor’s note: We got our paws on the diary of an orange cat who managed to document his feline thoughts and feelings on an unexpected camping adventure. We cannot reveal how we obtained this prolific log or why this cat is not world-famous for his phenomenal, human-like storytelling. What we can share is that this journal helps answer an important question: Do cats actually like camping?
July 16, 2024
9:13 a.m.
Dear Diary,
This morning, I woke up annoyed (typical) to realize my subordinate, Alan, had placed me in a floating crate (not typical). Hours later, we arrived at what I would describe as an extra-large litter box. (Alan is calling it a “campground.”) I’m not sure why we’re here, honestly. As an indoor cat, my guy should know that when I meow at the backdoor for hours like I want to go outside, it doesn’t mean I actually want to go outside.
And yet, here we are.
There are overgrown scratching posts (“evergreens”) and one gigantic water bowl that sparkles (a “lake”). I might investigate both later, after I finish being somewhat afraid of the light breeze. Alan, my eternal assistant, is setting up a huge, dome-shaped kitty cave made of something flimsier than my at-home hideout. (It looks like my nails would glide beautifully through it!) I just wish he’d speed up the process of procuring shade because I’m late for my 11-hour nap.
10:22 a.m.
Dear Diary,
Good news: My nails do glide nicely through the shelter, much to Alan’s dismay. Through 12 or 58 deranged-yet-adorable yelps, I explained to him this is the price he must pay for ripping me from my familiar palace to try something new.
My brain may be small and orange, but I do understand longing. I long for the spot under the living room chair where the scorching yellow light touches only my tail; I long for the fresh bowl of kibble exactly where it belongs; I long for the windowsill where I perch, dreaming of a world where cats can roll down the streets in plastic balls like hamsters. (I watch a lot of TV while Alan is at work.)
Alan is drinking more water than usual from a spectacular jug and sharing drips and drops with me, but it doesn’t taste like the gourmet faucet water I demand. I have to say, so far this is a one-star experience. I have deducted points for all the uncertainty, unfamiliarity and heat, but added points because my best friend (Any Kind of Moving Shadow) is here, too!
4:13 p.m.
Dear Kibble,
Ugh, I mean Dear Diary. The heat has gotten to me.
Alan keeps meowing in English, something about a “hike.” Listen, all I want to do is hike up my back leg and lick myself clean without judgment. I will, however, give this little camping situation a singular accolade: It smells quite nice out here in the BULB (Big Unkept Litter Box). My nose has been up in the air (more than usual) taking in all the eclectic scents of the wild. Apparently, I come from a long line of “wild” cats, but Alan says I did not inherit any of their survival skills. (Is swatting powerfully at nothing not a survival skill?!)
I also did some spiritual soul-searching this afternoon via two solo meditations called “Is This Bug Worth Chasing?” and “Is THAT Bug Worth Chasing?”
I can see why people like this Chaotic Little Outdoor Peace Experiment, but I am exhausted and falling asleep against Alan’s sock-and-sandal combo as we speak.
7:30 p.m.
Diary, call 911 because our campsite is on fire! Alan is being pretty chill about the fire. This is probably because he has his burgundy water now. He seems to be enjoying the dancing lights (he’s just like me), while I do all the work and roll around in the cool grass, doing battle with the spiky yet soft blades, challenging their audacity to be so edible, scratchy and soothing all at the same time.
It’s also nice to leave my gorgeous orange-blonde hair in a new location.
7:33 p.m.
OK, holy Fancy Feast—I just played “Is This Bug Worth Chasing?” again and won against this crazy “Game of Thrones”-type monstrosity. (A “dragonfly,” Alan said.) I did my nighttime zoomies to celebrate, but instead of smashing into the wall at the end of the hall, I just kept running and running and running until Alan lured me back to camp with a tuna treat. This is what my big-cat ancestors must’ve felt like every day.
9:00 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Alan is playing “Getting Ready for Bed,” but joke’s on him because I play that all day. I see no bed, just a large bag. We are getting ready to cuddle in the big kitty dome (a “tent,” apparently), which I helped ventilate earlier. Not to get all emo, but the longing for home that I felt when we first got here is subsiding. I was certain this trip would put the “cat” in “catastrophic,” and yet…
July 17, 2024
6:22 a.m.
Dear Diary,
Good news: My skill of sleeping for nine hours came in handy, and we survived! Alan is having hot brown water by the campfire. (Yes, I can know words like “unkept” and not know the names of the liquids in Alan’s cup, OK? I contain multitudes.) Both of our whiskers are twitching with all the delightful morning smells.
Alan meows on and on about going home, but I ask if we can stay a little longer the best way I know how: by tearing the tent to shreds.
