Paws of Fire

I'll say it right from the start: **I do not do well in heat.** I am a delicate tabby flower, designed for lounging gracefully on window sills during mild spring mornings or doing Olympic-level pouncing in cool autumn breezes. I was not—let me repeat: **NOT**—built for 34°C with humidity levels so high even the curtains gave up and stuck themselves to the walls like sweaty towels.

But do my sisters listen to me?

Nooooooo.

Because Spurka thinks she's some kind of dark, mysterious jungle panther who thrives in tropical conditions, and Kitka—don't get me started on Kitka—says she's "seen worse in '08," whatever that means.

So there we were.

**Toruń, Poland. Mid-heatwave. The sun is angry, the tiles molten, and the balcony plants staging a silent rebellion.**

**Day One: The Melting Begins**

At 6:42 a.m., I dramatically flopped onto the kitchen tiles like a Victorian lady fainting at the opera. I flung out one paw and wailed (very softly, for dramatic effect), "Spurkaaaa... I'm dying…"

Spurka, perched near the window like a cat-shaped shadow of judgment, barely glanced at me.

"It's 26°C," she said. "Get over yourself."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "I can feel my bones evaporating."

"That's not how bones work," Kitka mumbled from her position under the sink. She had parked herself on a folded towel that used to be mine. "Back in 2018, we had a heatwave so bad the goldfish in the neighbour's pond started sunbathing."

"Did they wear tiny sunglasses?" I asked, intrigued.

Kitka gave me a long, dead stare. "You were still a bean when that happened."

I don't know what she meant by *bean*, but I was too hot to argue. Instead, I slid (gracefully, mind you) across the floor tiles and ended up with my chin under the fridge. Not a good spot. Too dusty. Smelled like betrayal and old pickles.

**Day Two: The Fan Fiasco**

At approximately 2:14 p.m., the humans finally caved and brought **The Fan** into the living room.

Now, The Fan is a magical, whirring, humming machine of glorious wind that I believe was forged by ancient gods specifically for my comfort. I love it. Worship it. Would marry it if allowed.

I settled in front of it like a queen awaiting her royal breeze.

Kitka joined me after ten minutes of pretending she wasn't interested. Typical. "You're too close. You'll dry out your whiskers."

I glared at her. "You dried out your humour in 2018."

Spurka showed up, rolled her black eyes, and—*get this*—SAT ON TOP OF THE FAN. The actual top.

"You'll fall off!" I hissed.

"That's the point," she said, ears back. "I've accepted my fate. Take me, heatwave. I'm done."

She then flopped down dramatically and almost *did* fall, which ruined the whole aesthetic.

**Day Three: The Balcony**

Now, I know the balcony is technically *allowed territory*. But when it's 38°C and the sun is melting through the pavement, it becomes a **lava portal to the Underworld.** And yet…

Guess where Kitka decided to go?

She strutted out like she was Cleopatra. Lay down between the cactus and the limp basil plant, and blinked slowly at me as if to say: "Coward".

So I followed. I had to. For pride. For honour. In the event that humans would give me balcony treats.

One paw.

Two paws.

Tail low, belly pressed to the tiles.

It was hot.

I was a sizzling sausage.

Then I made the mistake of stepping into the SHADELESS ZONE.

My paw sizzled.

**SIZZLED.**

I leapt in the air like a popcorn kernel and bolted straight into the house, knocking over Spurka's water bowl and the mop bucket, which I *regret nothing about.*

Kitka remained outside, smug.

**Day Four: Operation Refrigerator**

Here's the thing about being clever and small: **I fit in places.** Not emotionally, of course—I'm far too unique—but physically. Like between the wardrobe and the wall. Or behind the curtain. Or—hear me out—**inside the refrigerator.**

It started as a joke.

But then the human opened the fridge, and I saw paradise. Glorious cold. Shiny shelves. That mysterious drawer of forbidden cheeses.

So, when she turned to grab a cucumber, I **snuck in.**

Okay, yes, I was caught after only twelve seconds, but in that time I achieved **total bliss**.

"Gryzka! Out!" she shrieked.

I blinked innocently. "Meow."

She lifted me out like a bag of frozen peas and slammed the fridge shut.

Kitka saw the whole thing. "You're an idiot."

"I'm a pioneer."

"You're a half-thawed dumpling."

**Day Five: The Towel War**

It was hot. We were cranky. The humans put out **wet towels** for us to lie on. Good idea, right?

WRONG.

Apparently, there was only **one optimal towel**, and all three of us wanted it.

I got there first.

Spurka pounced and shoved me off with her elegant, ninja-like grace. She did this thing where she sat down **very fast** and pretended she'd been there all along.

I tackled her.

She bit my ear.

Kitka entered the room like a bear waking from hibernation, saw the scuffle, and launched herself onto BOTH of us like a tiny, calico bowling ball.

It was chaos.

Fur everywhere.

The towel? Completely ignored.

Later, we all agreed to sit in a pile on the floor, sharing the corner of a doormat because we are, despite our differences, **family.** Gross.

**Day Six: The Great Water Bowl Heist**

Desperation makes you do strange things.

Spurka, who had once sneered at my idea of playing with ice cubes, was now dunking her paws in the water bowl and flinging droplets at her face like some spa diva.

Kitka was lying next to a frozen bag of peas stolen from the freezer. She hissed when I got near. "My peas."

So, I made a plan.

While they were distracted, I raided the humans' **shower**.

Yes. You heard me.

I bravely entered that cursed chamber of doom while the floor was still **wet.** Risked my life. Got one paw soaked. **Traumatised.**

But I succeeded in licking exactly four (4) drops of fresh water before retreating like a hero of legend.

Kitka watched me limp away.

"Idiot," she said.

"Survivor," I muttered, and collapsed behind the laundry basket.

**Day Seven: Night of the Feline Zombies**

Here's the thing: **We are night creatures.** Nocturnal royalty. In summer, night is our only chance to reclaim dignity.

So, when the sun finally dipped behind the buildings and the air cooled to a refreshing 28°C, we came **alive**.

Spurka turned into a blur of shadowy fur, doing laps down the hallway like she was training for the Cat Olympics.

Kitka stalked a moth, caught it, let it go, caught it again, gave it a lecture on moral decline, and then ate it with one judgmental crunch.

I, your humble narrator, performed a one-cat interpretative dance on the kitchen table, knocking off three coasters and a fruit bowl.

The humans stared.

"We're raising demons," one whispered.

"Look at them. Deranged," said the other.

They don't understand.

This is **heat madness.**

**Day Eight: The Fan Betrayal**

Disaster.

The fan broke.

**I repeat: THE FAN BROKE.**

I stared at it. Sat in front of it. Willed it to breathe wind again.

Nothing.

The humans fiddled with buttons. Swore under their breath. I offered moral support by meowing directly into the broken vents.

Kitka lay flat like a furry pancake in front of the open freezer door.

Spurka tried to invent something with popsicle sticks and clothespins. It did not work.

We were doomed.

The end was near.

I began writing my last will and testament in spilled kibble.

Just as I was preparing to pack my bags and migrate to Iceland, it happened.

Clouds.

**Actual clouds.**

A rumble of thunder. A sprinkle of raindrops. Then—a full-on **Toruń torrential summer downpour.**

We bolted to the windows.

Spurka shrieked, "WATER FROM THE SKY!"

Kitka grunted, "'About time."

I pressed my nose against the glass and wept with joy. The smell of wet pavement. The wind was sweeping through the house like a breath of mercy. The balcony tiles are steaming like embarrassed sausages.

Then came the true reward.

Our human opened the balcony doors.

I stepped out.

Tail high.

Fur puffed.

And let the raindrops fall on my majestic tabby self like a queen being baptised by nature.

So yes, we survived the Great Heatwave of the Year.

The fan was replaced by Ania.

The basil was growing again.

Kitka claimed she saw Elvis in the condensation on the window.

Spurka still insists she can smell rain before it comes (she can't).

As for me?

I remain slightly traumatised, slightly stronger, and still very much against temperatures above 23°C.

But I am also a warrior now.

A warrior with singed paw pads, heatwave PTSD, and a deep, abiding love for cool ceramic tiles.

Long live the fan.

Long live the night.

And long live the noble House of Fluffy Fury Cats.