The Catford Dynasty
Subtitle: Who Are Mr. and Mrs. Catford To Me?
Two cats, one dynasty. They’re not villains, not pawns, not even jesters. They’re a reminder — of when laughter starts, and when the snark ends.
The Breeds Behind the Names
Mr. Catford — A Persian: regal, stoic, the living embodiment of silent judgment. Always looks like he’s wearing an invisible tuxedo, always poised, always ready to remind you that you’re beneath his gaze.
Mrs. Catford — A Himalayan: elegant, sharp, the strategist. Carries herself like a queen in lace, half-lidded eyes that can silence a room without raising a paw. Graceful, but claws unsheathed when order demands.
Why They’re Here
The Catfords aren’t just pets in the lore — they’re fixtures. Anchors. They mark the boundaries in the chaos:
Mr. Catford signals when the game is over and the room has to take the verdict seriously.
Mrs. Catford reminds everyone that order isn’t cruelty — it’s elegance with claws.
Together, they mean this: You don’t need the crown to exist. Their very presence says that authority doesn’t come from shouting or flame — it comes from knowing when to bare teeth and when to simply look.
What They Mean to Me
They’re the voices that cut when mine doesn’t have to. They’re the steady paws in the Tribunal. They are not malicious. They are correction embodied — silent, sharp, and final.
When they weigh in, it’s not noise. It’s law.
Side Notes from the Catfords
Mr. Catford: “Meow. Translation? Bite first, paperwork later.”
Mrs. Catford: “Order is elegant. Claws are unsheathed only when required.”
A One-Off Note
There’s also their cousin — Prince Unsmoothtoes. Regal in name only, with toes like blunt weapons and the confidence of a cat who once fought a Roomba and lost. He won’t return again in this archive, but for tonight, he’s in the room.
📜 Filed in the Book of Boris — Dept. of Petty Affairs 🥃 — Jerry “The Ankle Biter” Silverhand