How many lives do you have to live before you can call yourself a New Yorker? Some say 10. Others say 15 or 20. And still more would go as far as to say that you’re not a real New Yorker as long as you bother yourself with these petty social politics.

It’s only because most humans embrace routine that we allow them to share our homes, let alone retain them as members of our staff.

As I flew past her face, her relaxed expression turned to shock. She was halfway through a sentence and my unscheduled, airborne appearance caught her by surprise.

Mum lifted the lid to reveal a gleaming keyboard and ran her fingers lightly along the shiny surface. Suddenly the room was filled with the most intense spine-tingling, claw-curling, whisker-quivering music imaginable.

I was rudely awoken from my post-lunch siesta by the sound of shrill, sharp shrieks that almost shattered the crystal chandeliers. “Laaa, laaa, laaaa, laaa, looo!” Oooh! The sound was so repulsive. It made my ears flatten and the tips of my whiskers frizz. Could it be the new neighbor who moved in two days ago?

The moment I met mother-in-law Millie, I knew she was trouble. If you’ve ever had a strong aversion to a complete stranger, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.

You’re most likely grooming, feeding, and scooping the litter box of an undercover agent. Maybe your timid tabby secretly works for the Cat Intelligence Agency (CIA). Or maybe your sassy Sphynx reports to the Feline Bureau of Investigation (FBI).