The Three Monkeys

I live with three cats. This was never the plan. Life just hacked something up and walked away. There was only ever supposed to be one: Monkey. The original Monkey. My Pampered Prince. A ginger-and-white Tom with opinions, emotional boundaries, and a visible disdain for neediness. A cat who does not beg, only tolerates — and even then, begrudgingly. Somewhere along the way, two more cats appeared. Either I adopted them in moments of moral weakness, or they simply materialised and refused to leave. It’s unclear. Cats don’t explain themselves and I know when to let things go. They are all ginger and white. All Toms. And — perhaps because I lack any imagination, or perhaps because I think this makes me hilarious — they are all called Monkey. Not Monkey One, Two, and Three. Just Monkey. The largest Monkey is impossible to ignore. Built like a tank. A brick wrapped in fur. Overweight, overbearing, and deeply convinced the house belongs to him. He claims the best spots with the authority of a sergeant major — decisive, unchallenged, and frankly terrifying. The cat tower by the window. The sunniest patch on the floor. The exact centre of the bed. All his. He people-watches like it's his full-time occupation, as if filing reports to some invisible superior, occasionally judging passersby, and begs for attention with the confidence of someone who has never once been told to “calm down”. When he eats, he eats first. When he sleeps, he sleeps expansively. When he wants affection, he demands it with a headbutt that feels less like love and more like a formal claim of territory — love me now… or bleed later. The middle Monkey — the original — could not care less. He is aloof in a way that feels curated. Regal. Emotionally unavailable by design. He accepts affection strictly on his own terms and rations it sparingly. He will tolerate a stroke, perhaps two, then leave as if embarrassed by his own generosity. Then — the teasing bastard that he is — he will sit just out of reach, licking his paws, reminding me that love must be earned and timing is everything. Typical cat behaviour. Deeply annoying. Mildly impressive. He eats eventually — the fussiest of the three — after inspecting the bowl like a food critic who’s already decided it doesn’t meet his standards. He would like you to know he’s disappointed, but it's fine. He will persevere. Still, he’s doing fine. Thriving, even. My special ginger puss. And then there is the third Monkey. He is tiny and fragile, a mere shadow of a cat. All ribs and apologies. His eyes are too large for his frail body, as though fear has stretched them permanently open. His fur is sparse, his presence lighter, as if he might fade away entirely if no one is paying attention. He lives mostly under the sofa. Sometimes he ventures out. Just to the edges. He inches forwards cautiously, stretching his narrow head into the open, testing the air. A sound — a footstep, a cough, a shifting chair — sends him scrambling back into the dark, folding himself into tight corners as though apologising for daring to exist. The other two barely notice him. At feeding time, the hierarchy is unmistakable. The tank Monkey plants himself at the bowl and dares the universe to challenge him. The original Monkey sniffs, judges, waits to see if something better might appear. The smallest Monkey hangs back, hovering near the doorway, watching the ritual like a dinner party he wasn’t invited to. He never pushes in. He never meows. He waits. I tell myself I’ll sort it out later. Feed him separately. When things calm down. When I’m more organsised. When I become a better person with a clipboard and a plan. There is always a later in my head — until life dangles catnip on a string and I chase that instead. The days pass. The tank Monkey grows heavier. The original Monkey remains immaculately indifferent. The small Monkey grows quieter, shrinking into his own shadow. He sleeps more. Curled in on himself. As if trying to vanish into his own fur. I worry about him constantly. I worry he won’t make it, that he won’t pull through — that he’s simply not built for the world he’s in. The house feels heavier. Fuller. Louder. The tank Monkey occupies the window tower as if guarding his fortress, basking in sunlight and admiration. The original Monkey grooms himself nearby, licking his golden balls meticulously and with zen-like dedication. Inner peace has clearly been achieved. And the smallest Monkey is nowhere to be seen. I find him in a corner, pressed against the skirting board, trying to take up as little space as physically possible. His body is tight, coiled. He meets my eyes in that fearful way — the look someone gives you when they expect to be punished for simply existing. Something in my chest tightens in a way that feels overdue. I kneel down. I don’t call his name. I place a small saucer beside him. Nothing fancy. Nothing noisy. Just food. Just for him. He hesitates. Not dramatically. Just long enough to fracture something inside of me. He doesn’t move at first. He watches the food like it might vanish — or worse, be hoovered in one violent sweep by the tank that is his brother. When he finally leans forwards, it’s tentative, trembling. He eats cautiously, like he’s afraid the bowl will be pulled from beneath him at any second. He doesn’t trust that this is allowed. He keeps glancing up at me. Checking. As if waiting for permission to continue. I realise that he doesn’t know what safety feels like. That nourishment, for him, has always been conditional. That even now — he expects this kindness to be temporary. And this is the moment the veil drops. This was never about cats. This is about the parts of me that dominate without question. The parts that critique but are always fed. And the part of me that hides under the sofa — fragile, overlooked, quietly starving — waiting for permission to exist, for proof that survival does not have to be earned through silence. I wake up unsettled. Not comforted. Not resolved. Because feeding him once doesn’t undo years of hunger. Because noticing him doesn’t mean I will protect him. It only means I can no longer pretend he isn’t there. I know where he hides now, how he curls into shadows, how he flinches at ordinary sounds, how he waits without asking. How he has learned that survival is quieter if you don’t draw attention to yourself. I know that tomorrow the house will fill again with noise and appetite. That the loud will step forwards. That the confident will eat first. And I don’t know — honestly — if I will always remember to kneel. If I will always choose the small saucer. If I will notice the part of me that disappears so well it feels like absence rather than neglect. All I know is this: he will still be under the sofa, measuring the world by its footsteps, waiting for permission that may never come. And now that I’ve seen him, that waiting belongs to me too.