The Tuition Model

My cat doesn't have an attitude problem. I have a "leaving things on tables" problem, and he has made it his life's mission to correct me. Every shattered glass is a lesson. Every swept-off-the-counter paperweight is coursework. Tuition is expensive and strictly non-refundable.

Here's how his curriculum works. Phase one: he stares at the object. Long, hard, unblinking. Phase two: he extends one paw — slowly, theatrically — until it makes contact. Phase three: gravity does the rest while he maintains direct eye contact with me. The message is unmistakable: this was preventable, and it was your fault.

He's Not Sorry

People ask why I don't just stop putting things on tables. People also ask why the ocean is wet. The tables are there. The things need to go somewhere. And the cat — the cat is an unstoppable force of corrective justice in a fur coat.

I've tried everything. Museum putty. Double-sided tape. A stern conversation, during which he yawned so wide I saw his tonsils. Nothing works, because this isn't misbehavior. This is pedagogy. He is teaching me, one broken mug at a time, that the only safe surface in this house is the floor — and honestly, he's not wrong.

Graduation Day Never Comes

The worst part? I'm learning. I catch myself scanning every tabletop like a bomb disposal technician now. Coasters have been deployed. Valuables have been relocated to locked cabinets. I have been fully trained, and my trainer accepts payment in kibble and the occasional chin scratch.

So no, my cat doesn't have an attitude problem. He has a student with a "leaving things on tables" problem, and class is always in session.

The final exam is ongoing. Just last week, a full water glass met the floor in what witnesses describe as a textbook execution. I have stopped replacing the good glasses. We drink from plastic now, like civilized people who have been defeated by a twelve-pound professor. Class dismissed.

The 3 AM Zoomies Exception

Now, you should know: the professor has a second job. By day, he's a stern educator correcting my tabletop habits. By night — specifically at 3 AM — he becomes a parkour athlete with no regard for physics, furniture, or my will to live. The same paw that delicately nudged a glass off the table at noon will, at 3 AM, launch his entire body off the dresser like he's escaping a burning building.

I've asked him about the inconsistency. He stared at me, then knocked my phone off the nightstand. I choose to interpret this as: "The curriculum is full-time. There are no semesters. There are no breaks. There is only the lesson, and the lesson is that you should have gone to bed earlier."

What the Cat Would Put on My Report Card

If the roles were reversed and he were grading me, I shudder to think of the comments. "Shows improvement in coaster usage, but still leaves the good mug within swatting distance. C-minus." "Attendance at 3 AM zoomies: poor. Enthusiasm for 5 AM breakfast demands: needs work." "Overall: a promising student with chronic tabletop issues and a concerning attachment to unsecured drinking vessels."

And you know what? He's right. Every word of it. I've been fully domesticated by a ten-pound adjunct professor who pays no rent and contributes nothing to the household except judgment and the occasional dead bug. Ten out of ten. Would enroll again.