Wednesday 21st January 2026
I hadn’t planned to raise the Stewart Island situation at the Mindfulness Meeting, but that’s often how the most important matters arise. Someone asks an innocent question, and suddenly you realise that nobody else in the room has the courage — or frankly the intelligence — to address what is right in front of them.
“Cats will take Stewart Island the ‘hard way’ if we can’t do it the ‘easy way,’ I said, grabbing everyone’s attention.
“I just think we should all try to stay calm,” Serafina was saying, in that careful voice she uses when she believes emotions are dangerous. “And perhaps focus on what we can control.”
Exactly, I thought. Finally, someone gets it.
I cleared my throat and stood on the new garden furniture so everyone could see me properly. This was not a power move — it was practical. When you have information of this magnitude, you don’t sit down.
“Many cats have been asking me,” I began, although nobody had, “what is actually happening with Stewart Island.”
There was an immediate ripple of discomfort. Cookie stopped grooming. Winston froze mid-blink. Serafina looked at me as though I’d just brought a dead mouse into the yoga group.
“Now, a lot of misinformation is going around,” I continued. “A lot. And frankly, some of it is being spread by birds. Which should surprise no one.”
Serafina opened her mouth, then closed it again. I took that as agreement.
“I want to be very clear,” I said, raising my paw because it felt like the right moment to do so. “No one is saying we’re taking Stewart Island. That’s not what this is about. This is about access. Oversight. Strategic napping locations. And frankly, if the island didn’t want attention, it shouldn’t be sitting at the bottom of New Zealand looking so cold and empty.”
Mr Darcy, who had just arrived and was still adjusting his collar, muttered, “Cats aren’t allowed there.”
I laughed. A short, confident laugh. The kind that reassures people.
“That’s what they say,” I replied. “But a lot of things were once ‘not allowed’ until the right cat came along and asked the right questions. Very politely. And very firmly.”
Mr Darcy cleared his throat.
“It’s not so much that cats aren’t allowed,” he said, “as that their presence would, in certain interpretations, be considered incompatible with existing frameworks of permission, precedent, and implied ecological obligation.”
“Exactly,” I said, even though I hadn’t understood a word. “Thank you Mr Darcy.”
At this point, Serafina stood up.
“Weasley,” she said, her voice tight. “Stewart Island is a protected environment. It’s for native wildlife. Cats would be devastating.”
I nodded gravely. “I’ve heard that argument. And I respect it. Tremendously. No one respects wildlife more than I do. Some of my closest acquaintances are birds. I watch them every day.”
There was a long silence.
“I don’t eat them,” I added, magnanimously. “Unless they provoke me.”
Serafina pinched the bridge of her nose, which is something she does when she is trying very hard not to lose her composure.
“Weasley,” she said slowly, “this is a Mindfulness Meeting.”
“And I am being extremely mindful,” I replied. “Mindful of opportunities. Mindful of threats. Mindful of the fact that if we don’t act decisively, someone else will. Possibly dogs.”
That got their attention.
“Now,” I continued, pacing along the length of the table, “people are saying this is about cats invading Stewart Island. Which is ridiculous. Nobody is talking about an invasion. I would never use that word. What this is about is exploration. Collaboration. A trial period.”
“A trial period for what?” asked Moriarty, who had come back to Diamond Harbour hoping for calm and had somehow ended up here.
“For excellence,” I said. “For leadership. For seeing what’s possible when you stop living in fear of dogs and worrying about the effect that you’re having on birdlife.”
Serafina made a small choking noise.
“You do realise,” she said, “that cats are specifically excluded to protect native wildlife.”
“Excluded,” I repeated thoughtfully. “That’s an interesting word. Very negative. And frankly, outdated. A lot of things used to be excluded. Beds. Benches. Kitchens. And look how that turned out.”
I paused, allowing the weight of my words to settle on them.
“I want to reassure everyone,” I went on, “that no one cares more about wildlife than I do. Tremendously. I care so much that I’ve already thought of solutions. For example: designated no-chase days. We could wear little vests. Possibly bells, although I don’t love the bells. They’re very loud and frankly a bit humiliating.”
“This is insane,” Serafina said. “You can’t just decide these things.”
I smiled at her. A calm, patient smile.
“That’s what they said when I took over the couch,” I replied. “And now look. Order. Stability. Predictable cushion access.”
There was murmuring. Not agreement — but not outright rebellion either. Interesting.
“And let’s talk about the snow,” I said, warming to my theme. “Cold builds character. Fur looks fantastic in cold climates. Very majestic. You’ve all seen those big northern cats. Lions. Tigers. They don’t live in warm, cluttered suburbs arguing about compost bins.”
“Those animals don’t live in snow,” interjected Smokey O’Neill, a Norwegian Forest Cat who was an authority on anything Nordic and had once spent an entire winter explaining Scandinavia to anyone who stood still long enough.
“Some do,” I said. “And the ones that don’t could if they wanted to. It’s a mindset.”
At this point, Winston finally spoke.
“Before anyone gets carried away,” he said, “has anyone actually asked Stewart Island what it wants? I should arrange a visit to negotiate in my official capacity as …”
I nodded. “That’s exactly the kind of negative thinking that’s held us back.”
My thoughts were moving very quickly now, racing ahead of my mouth in a way that felt productive but also slightly fizzy. The garden seemed brighter than usual. Sharper. My whiskers were vibrating with insight.
“I’m already in talks,” I said, lowering my voice. “Very serious talks.”
“With who?” asked Spooke.
“With whom,” corrected Mr Darcy.
I hesitated. This was a fair question.
“Well,” I said, “the television and a man on the radio who paused in a way that suggested agreement. Also, the fridge light came on at a very significant moment.”
Serafina stood up so abruptly that she nearly fell over.
“That’s enough,” she said. “You’ve clearly had too much catnip.”
I laughed. A big, generous laugh.
“Classic response,” I said. “When someone brings bold ideas to the table, the first thing they say is ‘catnip’. They always say that.”
The others were backing away now. I could tell they were overwhelmed by the scale of my thinking.
“Look,” I said kindly. “No one is forcing anyone to go. I’m not even saying I’m going. I’m just saying that if the island needed a strong, orange presence — someone with vision and proven couch-management skills — I would be prepared to step up. Selflessly.”
My front paws suddenly looked very small. Unusually small. I stared at them, flexed my toes, and felt a strange wobble in my confidence.
“That’s odd,” I murmured. “They’re usually much bigger during speeches.”
The garden blurred. The meeting dissolved. And then—
“Weasley!”
I jolted awake on the couch, my head heavy, my mouth dry, the faint, unmistakable scent of catnip embedded in my fur. Mummy was standing over me, arms folded.
“Honestly,” she said. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’ve taken all the catnip and rolled in it.”
I blinked. Slowly. Outside, the other cats were already gathering for the Mindfulness Meeting, Serafina sitting very straight, pretending not to look at me.
Stewart Island faded gently from my thoughts.
For now.