A very birthday special lies of p fic, for my dear 18 year old cat Rosey! She's the mother of my other crancky boy, lucky! Please enjoy this story, and i am still waiting on a bit of feedback for the Romeo story!
Also this story is based on a real life event!
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The new apartment smelled like dust and freshly painted walls. Carlo dropped his bag with a dull thud against the corner of the living room and straightened like a soldier finishing parade rest.
You stood across from him, one brow arched.
“Rules,” he said curtly, already ticking things off on his fingers.
“Separate bedrooms. Don’t touch my files. Don’t move my things. Don’t talk to me unless necessary.”
You opened your mouth.
“And don’t get comfortable. This is just temporary.”
He turned toward the hallway, the sound of his boots dragging into silence — just as a weak, ancient meow echoed from the open front door.
He paused. You turned around, calm, unfazed, and stepped back into the hallway with a small, warm hum under your breath.
When you reappeared, you were carrying a box.
And in it — or more accurately, enthroned inside a nest of crumpled blankets — sat what Carlo could only describe as a creature in slow-motion decay.
A black and orange cat, mostly fur, bones, and tired spirit, blinked sluggishly in your arms. Her head wobbled faintly when she looked around — not with alarm, but with the lazy confusion of someone who hadn’t processed a new location in over a decade.
One milky eye. A permanently downturned mouth. Ears folded slightly like a forgotten dumpling. And her tail? A limp, fluffy noodle curled over your wrist like it was unsure whether it still had muscles.
Carlo stared.
“...What is that?”
You looked down fondly. The cat let out another croaky mrrp, barely audible. You adjusted the blanket around her like she was made of glass and shamefully expensive silk.
“Her name is Rosey.”
“Rosey looks like she’s made of taxidermy and arthritis.”
“She’s eighteen. Be respectful.”
“I’ve seen corpses move more fluidly.”
You smiled, slow and sharp.
“She’s my baby.”
Rosey blinked again. Her head did that faint waver as her eyes adjusted, then landed directly — unshakably — on Carlo.
And she stared.
Not menacingly. Not magically. Just… slowly. With the gaze of a retired librarian judging your choice in font sizes. It lasted for five solid seconds. Unblinking. A judgemental ooze of ancient cat consciousness.
Then she made a small snort through her nose and closed both eyes.
Carlo actually shifted on his feet.
“She— Did she just fall asleep mid-glare?”
“She’s delicate.”
“She’s haunting.”
“She’s perfect.”
That night, he heard you through the too-thin apartment walls.
You weren’t loud, but your voice came gentle and mumbled in a rhythm meant only for the half-alive creature curled in your arms. You were humming. Talking about windows and sunbeams and tuna water. How you’d set up her bed near yours. How you’d found her old crinkle mouse.
He stared at the ceiling.
Later, when he passed your doorway, he caught a glimpse: you tucked under a light blanket, one arm crooked protectively over Rosey, who was curled into your side like a plush half-deflated pumpkin, legs out, one ear twitching.
He didn’t believe in soft things. Or comfort. Or warmth.
But he didn’t sleep well that night.
Not because of you.
But because part of him kept wondering how a half-dust cat managed to claim an entire queen-size bed like a kingdom.
Next morning, he poured coffee and turned around to see Rosey — wobbling slightly — sitting beside her food bowl.
He stared at her.
She stared back.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
She sneezed once, coughed like she was swearing, and flopped back onto the rug like she’d completed a triathlon. Her tail slapped the floor exactly once.
“You’re... horrifying.”
She blinked.
You appeared moments later, robe half-tied, bedhead glorious, whispering something only Rosey could hear as you scooped her up like a newborn.
Carlo hated that she purred like a broken fan motor the second she was in your arms.
.
.
.
Carlo woke to silence — the kind that doesn’t feel peaceful, but suspicious. He blinked up at the ceiling, rolled out of bed, stretched once, and walked into the kitchen.
A note sat on the counter, written in your elegant script:
“Gone to the farmer’s market. Don’t wait for me. Might be gone a while.
Love, Your wife”
He scoffed, crumpled the note, and tossed it into the bin.
“Not like I was gonna wait.”
He made coffee. Ate toast. Enjoyed the rare stillness of the apartment.
Until he turned and saw her.
Rosey.
She was halfway out of the hallway, having clearly made the difficult pilgrimage from your room to the living room. Her body leaned forward like an old accordion, hips slow to follow. Her left ear twitched. Her right eye stayed shut.
And she was staring directly at him.
Carlo blinked.
“No.”
Rosey wobbled forward, step by determined step. Like a war general crossing a minefield.
“Don’t come over here. I don’t— I’m not your person.”
She walked past her own food bowl. Ignored her cushioned cat bed.
She had one destination. Him.
The blanket on the armchair next to the sofa was where she aimed. It took her four tries to hook her front claws on the fabric.
Carlo groaned.
“Fine.”
He crossed the room, muttering the whole time, and gently — so carefully — picked up what felt like a warm, vibrating bag of bones and air. Rosey went limp in his arms, like you’d flicked her power switch off.
He placed her on the blanket.
She nestled down instantly. One eye opened. Looked at him.
Judgmental. Grateful. Ancient.
He sat back on the couch and, for the next hour, tried to pretend her presence meant nothing.
Until she didn’t move.
Not for water.
Not for food.
Not even to reposition herself.
She was... still.
Too still.
“Hey.” He leaned over the armchair. “Hey.”
No response. Not even a twitch.
"That cat really sleeps good huh?" He told himself not really caring
Yeah, that's probably IT.
.
.
.
Carlo approached cautiously, like the floor might explode. He crouched beside the chair. Rosey’s face sagged into the blanket like someone had put a sock full of potatoes in a bonnet.
He snapped his fingers by her ear.
Nothing.
He clapped.
Still nothing.
He whispered: “Rosey?”
Still.
He did not know what pure fear was until that exact moment.
That was when the door swung open and Romeo’s voice rang out, bright and chipper:
“Carlo! How’s married lif—what is that.”
Carlo spun. Wild-eyed. Sweating.
“I think I killed the cat.”
Romeo stopped halfway into the room. His eyes locked onto the creature in the chair.
“That’s a cat?”
“That was a cat, Romeo. She’s not breathing.”
Romeo took one step closer and made a noise like he’d swallowed a bug.
“She looks like she was born in a fire and got burned by time.”
“I KNOW! But she was alive earlier!”
Romeo leaned in, squinting.
Rosey didn’t move.
Not an ear flick. Not a sigh. Nothing.
Romeo took one step back.
Then another.
Then whispered:
“She’s going to haunt us.”
“She’s not dead yet!”
“You said She was and If not She’s dead inside, Carlo. Look at her. That’s the face of something that’s seen the invention of the wheel and gave up on humanity right there.”
“I PICKED HER UP FOR THREE SECONDS.”
“Well clearly you broke her.”
“She was trying to climb the couch! She looked like she was collapsing like a flan in a cupboard! I just helped!”
Romeo walked in a circle, hyperventilating.
“She’s like a black and orange purgatory rat. Oh my god, oh my god.”
Carlo ran a hand through his hair.
“I can’t tell if she’s just sleeping... or if rigor mortis hasn’t kicked in yet.”
Romeo tried snapping. Then clapping. Then whistling.
Nothing.
They both leaned closer.
She did not twitch.
Romeo slowly whisperd “Should we poke her?”
“You poke her.”
“She’s YOUR wife’s demon plush.”
Carlo rubbed his temples.
“Okay. Okay. We don’t panic. Maybe she’s... in a deep nap.”
“She’s in a coma, Carlo.”
“Cats take deep naps.”
“Cats don’t take death simulations.”
They both crouched in front of her.
Rosey remained perfectly still. A squashed ancient loaf of fuzz and shadow. Her fur glinted like old ink, her limbs arranged delicately like she died reciting poetry.
Carlo groaned. "She’s going to think I hated her.”
Romeo blinked at him.
“You did hate her.”
“Yes, but not in the murderous way! In the ‘please don’t hiss at me from the bookshelf’ kind of way!”
Romeo pinched the bridge of his nose.
“She’s going to think you stressed her out so badly she passed.”
Carlo stared at the floor.
“...i didn't close the Windows. Maybe she was cold and I didn’t fix it.”
“YOU FROZE HER TO DEATH?!”
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO!”
They both looked at her again.
Rosey’s head hung at a slight angle, giving the impression she was judging them even in death.
Romeo slowly backed up until his spine hit the door.
“She’s going to come home, see her like this, and then turn us both into toads.”
“I didn’t DO anything, Romeo!”
“You picked her up!”
“SO SHE COULD BE COMFY!”
“Maybe she wasn’t meant to be comfy, Carlo! She was built to suffer! To glare and hiss and waddle and survive on vinegar!”
Carlo dropped to the floor, head in hands.
“I’m going to jail. I killed her childhood companion.”
“She’s going to say you have no soul.”
“Maybe she’s right!”
“She’ll cry. That’ll be worse than being hexed.”
“Maybe I fake a robbery.”
“You think someone broke in, stole nothing, and just smothered the cat?!”
“IT’S MORE BELIEVABLE THAN A CUDDLE KILLING HER.”
They were mid-hysterics when they heard the key turn in the lock.
Both men froze.
Romeo whispered: “We’re dead.”
Carlo whispered back: “Act normal.”
Romeo blinked. “Define normal.”
“NOT STANDING NEXT TO THE CORPSE.”
They scattered like rats.
Rosey didn’t move.
The door creaked open, letting in warm afternoon light and the scent of fresh herbs, tomatoes, and the rain you’d walked through to get to the market.
“I’m back,” you called, kicking the door closed with your heel, arms full of bags.
There was a pause.
Too long of a pause.
Then a chorus of—
“Hello!”
“Welcome back!”
“You look amazing!”
“Did you get… uh… vegetables?”
Romeo's voice, and then Carlo’s—way too smooth. Like two bad actors in a school play. Both of them sat stiffly on the couch, suspiciously close to each other. Carlo stood quickly, rushing to take the bags from you.
“Let me—yeah, you’ve carried enough,” he said, smiling too much. Way too much.
He even kissed your cheek.
You blinked. “That’s… new.”
“You deserve affection,” he said. “You’re beautiful. Smart. Talented. Merciful. Generous. Not likely to overreact.”
You paused mid-step. “Are you okay?”
Romeo jumped in from the couch:
“He’s been wonderful. All day! Reflective. Empathetic. Definitely not a cat murderer.”
“ROMEO.”
You stopped cold. Eyes narrowing.
Your arms crossed slowly, and your eyes tracked them both as they practically boxed you out from the living room like a team of panicking thieves.
“Where’s Rosey?” you asked calmly.
They both flinched.
Romeo coughed.
“She’s… resting.”
“Resting?”
Carlo was already pushing you toward the kitchen. “Let me make you tea! You’ve been on your feet—don’t you want to rest? Not everyone should be upright all the time. Some beings deserve to lie down. Very still. Quietly.”
You stopped dead.
You squinted over Carlo’s shoulder.
There, in her armchair, swaddled in a throw blanket you hadn’t left her in, was your scrunchy, orange-and-black old lady. Still as a statue. No rise or fall of breath. No blink. Not even a flick of a tired tail.
You turned back to them slowly.
“How long has she been like that?”
“...A few hours.” Carlo murmured
“Tops. Like—one. Hour. Maybe." Romeo added
“We fed her.”
“I warmed the food.”
“He said ‘m’lady’ when he gave it to her. I was there, i swear”
Carlo, turned to Romeo eyes wide
“Why are you sabotaging me?!”
“Because I’ve seen how you cry, and I don’t want to be alone when it happens!”
You walked past them.
You leaned over Rosey, brushed your fingers across her spine.
She didn’t stir.
Carlo audibly gulped behind you.
“You didn’t sit on her, did you?”
“NO?! I placed her down gently!”
Romeo added, whispering: “It was more like lowering a relic onto velvet.”
You turned to them slowly.
“Did you try to wake her?”
“We... clapped. A lot.”
“I think she flinched once. Or maybe her bones shifted.”
Carlo took a step forward.
“Look, I genuinely didn’t mean to—she looked tired, I thought she’d be more comfortable in the chair, and now she’s just—like this! And I like her! I mean—not in a I-want-her-to-live-on-forever way—”
“He tried CPR.”
“I DID NOT.”
You exhaled, dropped to one knee beside her, and very gently placed your hand on her back.
Silence.
More silence.
Then… the faintest squeaky wheeze escaped her nose.
Carlo dropped onto the sofa like a man who’d seen death.
Romeo fell to his knees.
“She’s ALIVE.”
You stood, turned slowly, and said:
“...You two tried to cover up Rosey’s nap with a full psychological operation.”
“We panicked.”
“You should’ve seen her, she looked like a painting of an obituary.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And how long were you planning to keep this from me?”
Carlo hesitated.
Then he stepped forward and kissed you again. A long one.
You pulled back, staring at him.
He blinked innocently. “It’s called a distraction.”
Romeo collapsed dramatically onto the couch. “This cat is going to be the death of all of us.”
From the chair, Rosey let out another small wheeze-sigh, repositioned by approximately 3 millimeters, and returned to her thousand-year-old coma with the serenity of an immortal being.
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Based on a real event, this is my Rosey and She did in fact freak many people with her naps!
