Home Improvement: The Previous Owner Left Me Cat Furniture. He Just Didn't Know It.

One of the interesting things about buying somebody else’s house is discovering all the random shit they decided not to take with them.

Some of it makes you wonder, Why? Why would you leave this here? What am I supposed to do with this?

Other things make me want to track down the previous owner, send him a thank-you card and possibly a Starbucks delivery. The golf clubs he left behind fall firmly into that category.

And then there were these three wooden boxes.

They were stacked on the floor when we moved in, being used to hold a large model boat. I don’t actually know what they’re called or what they’re supposed to be. Shadow boxes? Display shelves? Places for plants or photographs or decorative objects?

Maybe.

The important thing is that the original wall-mounting hardware was still attached to the backs in little baggies.

The previous owner apparently saw those, but not wall décor. Fortunately he left the hardware attached, for someone like me to come along and realize what they actually are.

Because I saw CAT BOXES.

Immediately.

Apparently We Have a Cat Loft

One of the things I love most about this house is also one of its weirder features. There are walls that don’t go all the way to the ceiling, ledges, high openings and assorted architectural decisions that seem to have been made specifically for creatures capable of ignoring gravity.

In other words, we pretty much bought a house with a cat loft.

The cats had already figured this out, obviously.

Because cats can look at a surface approximately eleven feet above the floor with no discernible route to it and think, Yes. That’s mine.

The problem was giving them a better way to get there.

The second I saw those three abandoned boxes, I knew exactly what I wanted to do with them: mount them diagonally up the wall like giant steps leading toward the upper ledge.

Not just because it would look cool—although, holy shit, it does—but because it would actually give the cats something useful.

They could climb.

They could perch.

One could hold a little cat bed.

We could hang toys inside the others.

And, perhaps most importantly, they would have an escape route when Kylo decides that what every cat desperately wants is to be PLAYED WITH TO DEATH BY A DOG.

If their food and litter boxes weren’t downstairs, I’m reasonably certain these little assholes could establish a permanent civilization in the upper regions of the house and we’d only see them on holidays.

There Was Just One Tiny Problem

I couldn’t put them up myself.

I have been more or less banned from power tools and, frankly, most tools requiring an electrical outlet.

There are probably reasons for this.

I reject those reasons on principle, but that’s not relevant here.

So the boxes sat.

And sat.

And sat.

I knew exactly where I wanted them. I knew exactly how I wanted them arranged. Marcelo knew I wanted them done.

And every time I saw them sitting there instead of on the wall, it bothered me a little more.

Until yesterday.

I was in bed, sulking and watching Ju-On: Origins, as one does, when suddenly I heard something from the next room.

Power tools.

I came out to find Marcelo working on the cat wall.

He called me over to approve the positioning. He had me hold the tape measure. We figured out exactly where everything should go together.

And then he made the crazy little idea I’d been carrying around in my head since we moved in actually happen.

And Yes, the Cats Fucking Love It

There was, of course, one remaining concern.

You can spend hours designing something specifically for cats, carefully measure everything, drill holes into your wall, securely mount three perfectly good wooden boxes…

…and the cats will inspect your work, determine that you have tried too hard, and go sit inside the Amazon box my bubble bath salts arrived in.

I was fully prepared for this possibility.

They did not do that.

They barely waited for construction to finish.

Within what felt like minutes, there were cats in the boxes, cats on the boxes, cats climbing between the boxes, cats investigating the toys, cats lounging in the bed and cats disappearing into the previously un-charted upper reaches of the house.

At one point we had cats looking down at us from above like tiny gargoyles who had finally reclaimed their ancestral castle.

So: enormous success.

And apparently I was correct.

They were cat boxes all along.

The previous owner just didn’t know it.

The Part That Wasn’t Really About the Cat Boxes

There’s one more reason I’m writing this one down.

Marcelo did the physical work on this project, so I’m claiming exactly one contribution: I had the idea.

But this particular project meant more to me than getting something off the floor and onto the wall.

Things between us haven’t felt easy lately.

I’ve been struggling with feeling unseen. And when you already feel that way, the little things aren’t always little anymore. Something as insignificant as three wooden boxes sitting against a wall can start representing every time you’ve said, This matters to me, and wondered whether anyone actually heard you.

Yesterday I didn’t ask.

I was lying in bed watching my creepy Japanese horror series when I heard the drill.

He remembered.

He knew I’d been waiting.

He started doing it because he knew it mattered to me.

Then he called me in because he wanted it where I wanted it. He asked me to approve the placement. He handed me the tape measure. My idea mattered enough to become our little project for the afternoon.

It sounds small when I write it out.

It wasn’t.

Sometimes being seen isn’t a grand romantic gesture.

Sometimes it’s hearing a power drill through the bedroom wall and realizing someone remembered the thing you wanted.

And sometimes love looks like three mysterious wooden boxes somebody else left behind, mounted across a wall, while a bunch of cats immediately begin using them as a staircase to the fucking ceiling.

I’ll take it. ❤️

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Update: Apparently the Cat Highway Needs an Expansion

Remember when I put those box shelves on the wall so the cats could climb around above us like tiny furry gargoyles?

Well, apparently I wasn’t finished.

They’ve thoroughly explored the existing section, and as you can see from the photos, there is still an absolutely enormous amount of perfectly good vertical real estate in this house that has yet to be claimed in the name of Cat.

I probably could have ignored that for a while.

Marci could not.

This morning she decided to investigate the uncharted territory entirely on her own volition, which would have been admirable except that her chosen route took her barely past the fucking ceiling fan.

Marci is beautiful. Marci is fluffy. Marci is loved very much.

Marci is not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

So, naturally, off to Amazon I went.

I found these wooden wall-mounted cat shelves that have actual little perches plus a hammock, and they’re supposed to be sturdy enough for large cats. More importantly, they’ll let me create an intentional route across the big empty section instead of leaving Marci to develop her own aviation program.

The blue tape in the photos marks approximately where things need to go. The brown scribbles are my highly sophisticated architectural renderings. Please respect the design process.

And once they make it across that section, there’s still more house up there.

At this point I have accepted that I did not purchase a home with interesting vaulted ceilings for myself.

I purchased a cat highway with a mortgage.

The new shelves arrive later today.

God help me. And God especially help Marci, because apparently she has decided gravity is merely a suggestion.

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Update: We Have Now Entered the Civil Engineering Phase

There is one slight interruption in the planned Cat Interstate: the kitchen doorway.

Obviously we cannot allow a minor architectural inconvenience such as a room entrance to interfere with feline transportation.

So there will be a rope suspension bridge across it.

Yes.

A cat bridge.

Over my kitchen entryway.

We bought this house approximately three months ago and apparently my first major infrastructure project is establishing reliable elevated transportation for four cats.

At some point I should probably establish a budget for this project.

I will not be doing that. 😭

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Update: The Cat Interstate Is Officially Under Construction

Four days ago, this portion of the Cat Interstate existed primarily as blue painter’s tape and some extraordinarily professional brown scribbles I drew on photographs.

Today, we have infrastructure.

The wooden climbing shelves arrived and are now installed above the fireplace. The hammock is mounted on the other side, giving the cats another actual destination instead of leaving them to stare across vast stretches of wall and make questionable independent decisions about how to get there.

There is currently a ladder lying across my living room floor because apparently I am no longer decorating my first home.

I am a contractor for cats.

And naturally, before construction is even finished, management has arrived to inspect the work.

Look at that little face peeking over the wall above the hammock.

No gratitude.

No recognition of the fact that this entire expansion began because one of these furry assholes nearly clipped a ceiling fan while attempting an unauthorized aerial crossing.

Just:

“This appears incomplete.”

And, unfortunately, the inspector is correct.

Because the rope bridge still has to go up.

The fucking rope bridge.

This started with three box shelves.

I would like that entered into the official record.

The set actually came with three wooden perches, but you’ll notice only two of them are part of the main highway. That’s intentional.

The original plan put the third one in a location that, upon further consideration, provided what I can only describe as convenient access to the fish tank.

I love my cats.

I also love my fish.

And I have my fucking limits.

So do my fish.

The third perch was relocated near the front door, where a lovely afternoon sunray hits the wall and provides an excellent place for a cat to nap without terrorizing anyone with gills.

Everybody wins.

Except whichever cat thought I was installing a fish buffet observation deck. That proposal has been denied by management.

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Update: Marci Does Not Know What the Word Share Means

Well, I guess we can officially call the hammock a success.

Perhaps too much of a fucking success.

Marci has claimed it.

Not uses it. Not enjoys it. Claimed it.

The other cats have expressed interest in this exciting new piece of living-room infrastructure, which would normally be wonderful news considering I purchased and installed all this shit specifically for them.

Unfortunately, nobody explained to Marci that the hammock was intended to be a community amenity.

Max tried approaching from below.

Denied.

Max went upstairs and tried approaching from above.

Also denied.

At one point he was literally peeking around the wall at her like he was trying to determine whether there was some alternate route into the establishment.

There was not.

Marci remained sprawled in her hammock, utterly unconcerned with the housing crisis developing around her.

And while we’re discussing Marci, we have encountered another small design flaw.

Or, more accurately, a Marci flaw.

Remember the third wooden perch I moved over by the front door because its original location provided entirely too convenient a route to the fish tank? Well, apparently we’re moving it again—closer to the existing cat highway this time.

Because Marci decided she could fly from one of the shadow boxes to the new perch.

She could not.

She busted her stupid little ass and landed in the wood basket.

She’s fine. Her dignity may have sustained injuries, although determining that would require Marci to possess some sense of shame in the first place.

So now the third perch needs to be relocated close enough to give this hairy dingus a reasonable landing zone before she loses another one of her lives.

I feel like she’s down to about six at this point.

Which means I am now facing the very real possibility that I need to rearrange the climbing route and install several cat hammocks.

On the wall.

In my living room.

For cats.

Because apparently purchasing a house means dedicating substantial portions of its vertical square footage to the comfort, recreational needs, and continued survival of animals who routinely overestimate their own athletic abilities.

Their comfort is my life. 🫠

Marci’s continued existence, apparently, is also my responsibility.

And this bitch is making me work for it.