Chapter 1: Surveillance and Suspicion

Most people think cats are just aloof. I’m starting to think mine is a criminal mastermind.

But what if your cat is actually plotting your demise right under your nose?

The moment it hit me was at work, bored out of my mind in my cubicle in downtown Boise. I pulled up my home security camera on my phone, just to kill time.

My hands went cold and clammy as I watched the tiny screen, the smell of burnt coffee from the office breakroom suddenly making me nauseous. There she was: my cat, hopping onto the kitchen counter, nosing open a box of thumbtacks, and—unbelievably—slipping one beneath my pillow. She even tugged the pillowcase back into place, neat as you please…

Right there in my office chair, my heart skipped a beat. I had to bite down on a laugh—half out of disbelief, half because a real, prickly dread crawled up my spine. The office was dead quiet, just the hum of the AC and faint city traffic seeping through the window. I squinted at the screen, wondering if I was hallucinating.

Then she turned, catching sight of the camera’s red light.

She instantly switched gears, pretending to play—casually swatting the thumbtack onto the floor, like it was nothing.

My mouth hung open so long I probably looked like I was trying to catch flies. I watched as she morphed from supervillain to goofy housecat in a blink, batting at the tack like she’d just discovered gravity. If there were Oscars for cats, she’d sweep the awards, no contest.

1.

Should I get rid of her?

I sat at my desk, rattled and unsure.

My eyes drifted from my half-finished spreadsheet to the cubicle wall. The gentle clatter of keyboards faded away, replaced by the static buzz of anxiety. My mind tumbled back through every odd thing my cat had done since I adopted her two years ago from the shelter. Honestly, I’d known for a while she was different. Not like the kittens you see on social media—she was cute, sure, but there was a razor-sharp cunning in her eyes you just couldn’t miss. After all, she’s a cat.

A weird little shiver ran down my spine as I thought about how even in photos, she always looked a bit wild—too sharp, too aware, like she was plotting. Most people post pictures of their kittens looking like fluffy marshmallows. Mine? She always seemed to be calculating her next chess move. Sometimes, scrolling through my camera roll, I’d pause on her face and feel like she was staring right through me.

I remembered that night last winter—waking up to find her perched on my chest, staring at me like I was the last slice of pizza at a sleepover.

Other people’s kittens, when they’re happy, will rub up against their owners. That’s their way of leaving their scent on you—like announcing to all the other cats: “This human is mine. None of you are allowed to touch!”

I’d seen it on TikTok and in my friends’ Instagrams—a tabby winding between someone’s legs, purring so loud you could practically hear it through the screen. They all joked about being owned by their cats, like some kind of fuzzy mafia. There was something sweet about it, like a little love letter written in fur and purrs.

But my cat is different.

She only rubs against me when I’m asleep. She’ll creep up, nudge me gently, check that I’m out cold, and then slowly press her whole body against mine, inch by inch—almost like she’s measuring me.

More than once, I’d woken up in the middle of the night to a heavy, warm presence along my ribs—her breath faint on my cheek, her eyes watching, unblinking. My heart thudded so loud I was sure she could hear it. Was this affection—or an audition for a horror movie? It gave me the creeps, but I always told myself I was being paranoid. Still, sometimes it felt like she was testing, seeing if I’d flinch, if I’d move. And if I didn’t, she’d curl a little closer, satisfied—like a chef checking if the roast had finished.

Every time she realized she’d grown a bit, she’d get even more excited—like she was just biding her time until she was big enough to eat me.

I’d swear she did a little victory strut after these late-night weigh-ins. If cats could smirk, mine would. She’d leap off the bed in the morning, tail high, as if announcing: “Not yet. But soon.”

Her eyes aren’t like other kittens’, either. When I’m watching, she’ll act all silly and cute, but the moment I look away, her gaze lands on my throat, my groin—those vulnerable spots. Just like a wild predator, she studies her prey’s weaknesses, searching for the best place to strike.

Once, while brushing my teeth, I caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. I turned quickly. She was staring, not at me, but at the soft part of my neck. Goosebumps prickled my skin. It was subtle, but unmistakable—a flash of something ancient, hungry. Like she was carrying a little bit of jungle in her genes.

That’s when I remembered: cats are the ultimate felines. Lions and tigers are just oversized house cats, aren’t they?

I remembered watching documentaries as a kid—those big cats stalking gazelles on the savannah, the patient crouch before the pounce. House cats do the same thing, just with sock balls and laser pointers. I started to wonder if my little house panther had ambitions that stretched a bit farther than catnip mice.

But do I really have to throw her out?

After all, I’ve raised her for two years. Even though she always looks fierce, aside from the thumbtack incident, she hasn’t actually hurt me.

I thought back to the times she’d curled up on my lap when I was sick, the soft rumble of her purrs calming me down after a rough day. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe all cats had a bit of wildness in them.

I confided my worries to my college friend, Derek. He majored in a pretty niche field—animal science.

Derek was the kind of guy who wore cargo shorts in winter and named his Wi-Fi "CuttlefishKing." He never took anything too seriously, but he knew a ridiculous amount about animal behavior. If anyone could give me a straight answer, it was him.

After thinking for a moment, he asked me, “Do you think cats and dogs are the same?”

The question caught me off guard, but I nodded anyway. “Aren’t they both pets? If you really want to split hairs, one’s a cat and one’s a dog.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “That’s just nonsense. But let me tell you, cats and dogs are fundamentally different.”

He explained, “The biggest difference is their degree of domestication. Dogs are truly domesticated, but cats aren’t. That means cats really could try to kill you.”

Derek grinned, relishing my discomfort. “I know it sounds dramatic, but listen. The science backs it up.” He leaned back, arms crossed, professor-mode activated.

“As for how to tell if an animal is fully domesticated, it’s simple: wild dogs and domestic dogs look and act very different, but wild cats and domestic cats are basically the same. All the traits of domestic dogs are tailored to be human companions—their aggression is reduced, and they’re less interested in solitary hunting. But cats? Even domestic cats are still highly aggressive. It’s normal for house cats to catch mice. Even if a dog catches a mouse, it won’t eat it—but a cat will. That’s the wildness in their bones.”

He launched into a mini-lecture about domestication, referencing everything from wolves and dingoes to ancient Egyptian paintings. He made it sound like cats were little time travelers, half in our world, half in the wild. “That’s why you’ll find your cat stalking imaginary prey in your hallway at 2 a.m.,” he said, smirking. “They’re just wired differently.”

“So to a dog, humans are its masters. But to a cat, you’re just another creature in its life. If food ever runs out, your cat might very well kill you to survive. Or, in situations she thinks are justified, she might decide to kill you—like… being raised by you.”

I laughed nervously, but Derek’s face was dead serious. “No joke. There’s research on cats eating their owners. Google it—just, maybe not before bed.”

“To us, we’re just raising a cat and being nice to her. But to a wild feline, that’s imprisonment.”

The words hung in the air, heavy. I glanced down at my hands, wondering what my cat really thought of me. I remembered those mornings when she’d stare at me from the windowsill—patient, calculating, as if she was plotting her next move.

Derek spread his hands. “You say your cat wants to kill you? I’m not surprised. In fact, what you described could happen with any cat.”

I asked Derek what I should do. He answered seriously, “Blindfold the cat and cover her ears. Take her far away from your home. Most importantly, erase every trace of her scent from your house and along the way. Otherwise, you really might end up as her meal.”

He said it in a half-joking, half-terrifying way, but I couldn’t help picturing myself driving down some Idaho back road, cat in a carrier, pulling off at a gas station to wipe down the seats. It sounded like something out of a true crime podcast.