I, an adult man, spent $1,000 on cat furniture. Guess where she sleeps?

If you guessed inside the cardboard box it came in, congratulations, you understand cats better than I do. Let me set the scene: I decided my cat deserved the best. None of that flimsy pet-store stuff for her. No, I commissioned a handcrafted, solid oak, velvet-cushioned cat bed from an actual artisan. Think bespoke furniture, except for a four-legged dictator who spends most of her time plotting my demise.

The cat bed arrived, and I was so proud. I imagined her reclining regally on her velvet throne like the queen she is. Instead, she sniffed it once, gave me the feline equivalent of an eye-roll, and immediately climbed into the cardboard box it was shipped in. She shredded the packing paper, settled in, and hasn’t looked back.

I’ve tried everything to lure her onto her fancy bed. Treats? Ignored. Catnip? Barely glanced at. Even waving one of those feather wands over it, which only resulted in her looking at me like I was the dumbest person alive. Meanwhile, she’s turned the shipping box into a luxurious penthouse suite.

Now she lounges there, occasionally peeking out to give me side-eye, as if to say, “You spent $1,000 on a bed, and I’m living my best life in free housing.” I’m pretty sure she’s mocking me. Honestly, I feel like she might be a minimalist interior designer in disguise, because she’s chosen the cardboard box aesthetic over velvet cushions.

At this point, I’m convinced cats are an alien species sent to earth to humble us. They’ve somehow trained us to cater to their every whim while rejecting all of it in favor of garbage. I’ve learned my lesson: next time, I’m just buying her a new box and saving myself the financial humiliation.

TL;DR: I spent $1,000 on handcrafted cat furniture. She sleeps in the cardboard box it came in, rent-free, and I’m questioning my life choices.