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There are two kinds of mornings in this world.

The kind where you wake up naturally, refreshed, haloed in soft golden light like a saint in a Renaissance painting.

And the kind where you are assaulted by a damp, sandpaper tongue wielded by a ten-pound tyrant with whiskers.

It is 06:38 AM.

I know this because the digital clock on my nightstand glows with a judgmental neon precision that feels personal. 06:38. Not 06:39. Not “around 6:30.” Exactly 06:38. The universe wants me to understand that this is deliberate.

I am asleep. I am dreaming about something dignified. Possibly a beach. Possibly a Nobel Prize. It’s unclear. What is clear is the sudden sensation of moisture being aggressively applied to my left eyelid.

I flinch.

The moisture returns.

Longer this time.

Warmer.

I attempt to burrow into my pillow like a reasonable adult. The pillow is cool and forgiving. The pillow has never betrayed me. The pillow does not have a tongue.

The tongue returns.

“Guppy,” I mutter, eyes still closed, clinging to the last shreds of REM like a man clinging to a cliff edge. “This is not a democracy.”

Guppy does not believe in democracy.

She believes in results.

Her small striped body shifts. I feel paws press into my chest. She spreads her stance like she’s bracing against hurricane winds and leans in again. Direct contact. Full facial coverage. She is committed to excellence.

I try reasoning. “It’s Saturday.”

More licking.

“I pay the mortgage.”

A firmer lick.

“I have opposable thumbs.”

She pauses. Considers this. Then resumes, apparently unimpressed by evolutionary advantages.

The lamp beside the bed glows warmly, betraying me with its cozy civility. The open paperback on my chest lies face-down, mid-sentence, like it too gave up during the night. The skylight above lets in beams of early light that slice through floating dust particles, turning this domestic assault into something cinematic.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I recognize the beauty of the scene. Golden light. Fine dust in the air. The quiet hum of morning.

And my face being exfoliated against my will.

I crack one eye open.

Guppy freezes.

We lock eyes.

Her expression is serene. Peaceful. Almost spiritual.

Her tongue is still extended.

“Why,” I whisper.

She blinks slowly. Which, in cat culture, means affection.

In human culture, it means you are being owned.

The clock continues its silent countdown. 06:38 becomes 06:39. Time advances. I do not.

Guppy shifts tactics. Instead of licking, she presses her forehead into mine. A headbutt. Soft. Intentional.

It is the feline equivalent of, Get up, old man. The world awaits.

Or perhaps more accurately: The food bowl is tragically empty and this is your fault.

I sigh the sigh of a man who has lost but accepts the terms of surrender. I sit up slowly.

Guppy remains balanced on my chest as if we rehearsed this choreography.

“You win,” I say.

She purrs.

The sound is low and smug.

As I swing my legs over the side of the bed, she hops down with the efficiency of someone who has already achieved her objective. The mission was never affection. The affection was merely a tactic.

I shuffle toward the kitchen.

Behind me, Guppy saunters.

Victorious.

06:40 AM.

And somewhere in the quiet glow of morning, I understand a simple truth:

I do not own a cat.

I am employed by one.