Cat. Dog. 2025.

 

Note: Not the usual uplifting new year post.

They met behind a dumpster because that is where honest stories begin; next to rotting chicken bones, wet newspapers, and the smell of stuff gone bad. The dog arrived first, tail wagging like it had somewhere better to be later. The cat emerged from the shadows with paws soaked in suspicion. That should have been the first sign.

Dogs aren’t supposed to meet cats there, or anywhere, really! Dogs believe in tomorrow. Cats believe in survival. Philosophical incompatibility right from the start.

The dog wagged. The cat calculated. The dog thought this was fate. The cat thought this was Wednesday.

The dog believed in chemistry. The cat believed in physics: specifically, gravity, distance, and how fast it could leave if things got stupid.

They hung around each other longer than they should have. Shared silence. Shared contempt for pigeons. Sometimes the dog talked about fetch and purpose. Sometimes the cat stared into nothing, like it had seen the end credits already. People said it wouldn’t last. People always say that when they recognize themselves in the wreckage.

They spent weeks watching pigeons fail at life. Sharing space without sharing meaning. A wagabond said they were cute together. They say that about fires too, right before the house collapses.

The dog wanted a walk at sunrise, a bowl with their name on it, something hard to chew on. The cat wanted a corner, an exit, and no questions asked.

The problem wasn’t fighting. It was hope. The dog thought boops could fix the math. The cat knew better. Cats always know better. Dogs insist on learning the hard way, repeatedly, with enthusiasm.

Eventually, one night, without drama or speeches, the cat left. No note. No explanation. Just the echo of paws disappearing into the dark, like it had rehearsed it for years.

The dog waited. Dogs always wait. Then one day it stopped. Not because it understood, because waiting gets boring.

The cat, meanwhile, dreamed big. Not a litter box. Not redemption. Just a larger cardboard box. Thick walls. Dry corners. Enough space to sit and judge the world properly.

The dog watched the sky light up and made a resolution. No more scraps. No more old bones picked clean by previous mouths. From now on, only fresh bones; still warm with possibility, still dangerous.

And that’s how it goes. Another year ends. Another year begins. The dogs swear that this time will be different. A promise to change, to choose better, to stop meeting emotional disasters behind dumpsters.

But January smells suspiciously like December. You dress up the same habits, rename the same mistakes, and call it growth. Maybe that is life. Or maybe it’s just another dog believing, another cat leaving, and all of us pretending the new year didn’t come with the same old punchline.

1 Jan 2026. Another year clocked in, saw the mess, shrugged, and lit a cigarette.

Do this one slightly better, mate!