Introducing Poe'Vices: Life Advice You Definitely Didn’t Ask For From chaos gremlin to cosmic counsellor, Poe (our feline scream-queen) is now solving your deepest problems with her signature style: shouting, biting things, and recommending chicken. New column every Friday. Send your questions. Regret nothing. Eat the chickens. #CatAdvice #QueerCats #UnderlandChronicles #ChickenTherapy #PoeVices #TheKittyChronicles #Poedivine

“Turns out gills work. You’re welcome.” In a world where the rich breathe easy underwater and the rest are left gasping above, a rogue tech designer, a sanctimonious ex, and a sarcastic borg might be the last hope for redemption. Corporate theology, biotech betrayal, and underwater rebellion collide in Breathing Is For Closers.

Rodgit has vanished. Mowgli has not. In this week’s velvet lament, our Blanket Prophet chronicles the bitter ache of feline abandonment. From ceremonial meows to silent thresholds, justice is sought, warmth is withheld, and trust is—once again—flushed like a forgotten Dreamie. Absence isn’t silence. It’s strategy.

The prodigals return. Flushed, apologetic, and waving foreign meats like penance. But for Poe and the paws, trust is not dispensed with the drop of a Dreamie. This week’s revelation speaks of broken bowls, delayed doors, and the sacred art of suspicion. Chicken may soothe. But betrayal lingers.

They brought it home. That floppy, bug-eared interloper. That sycophantic imposter It has breath like betrayal and a brain possessed by the caninion devil on LSD after coffee and a slurp of Red Bull.

Poe-plies Volume VI: Bots, Biscuits, and Righteous Fury Maudlin in Montana writes in to ask what to do when a bot steals your work. Poe replies—naturally—with screeching vengeance, digital warfare, and several impassioned mentions of chicken. There's also some very real wisdom in here (under the feathery insults and claw threats). Writers: this one's for you.

She left again. The suitcase zipped. The trust, unzipped. In Scroll 16, the cats of Underland contemplate vanishing acts, unreliable affection, and the sacred betrayal of a closed door. Love, they remind us, should not require a return ticket. If she comes back without chicken—look away. Slowly. With purpose.

Rodgit is gone. The bowl is full, but the cushion is cold. This week’s Catanic Verses ponders the ones who vanish when it matters most. Trust, like tuna, does not reheat well. Scroll 15.11 reminds us: if they only arrive for sunshine, they were never truly yours.