I used to think I was just a regular cat owner… until I realized I’d built custom bunk beds for my cats, and now they flat-out refuse to sleep anywhere else.
It all started on a whim. I stumbled across a tiny wooden bunk bed set at a thrift store—clearly meant for dolls—and thought, “How hilarious would it be if the cats actually used this?” So I brought it home, painted it a lovely green, added miniature pillows and repurposed old pillowcases as blankets, tucked it neatly in the corner of my room, and waited.
Took less than a day.
Zita, my oldest, instantly climbed up to the top bunk like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. She curled up like feline royalty and gave me this look that clearly said, “Finally. Proper accommodations.”
Luna quickly staked her claim on the middle bunk. She crafted an elaborate little nest for herself, one ear usually poking out from under her favorite polka-dot sheet. If Zita so much as glances toward the middle bunk, Luna growls. Yes—actual turf wars over tiny doll furniture.
Even Nova, my shy girl, quietly claimed the bottom bunk a few days later. She slid in like she didn’t want to disrupt the delicate hierarchy that had formed.
And now? It’s official. My cats have their own bunk beds—and there’s no going back. Those beds are sacred now. Their personal sanctuaries. Try to move them an inch, and I get the side-eye of shame. I swear they’re telepathically telling me, “This isn’t up for negotiation, human.”
I never imagined such a silly idea would lead to this much devotion. I mean—they’re cats. Supposed to be aloof and self-reliant, right? But the way they’ve taken ownership of those beds, with the determination of pirates staking claim to buried treasure, is now one of the most entertaining parts of my day.
And it didn’t stop there.
Over time, the bunk beds became part of our household rhythm. Zita, the self-declared queen, established a strict nightly routine. Like clockwork, at exactly 8:00 PM, she hops up to the top bunk, tilts her head just so, and surveys her “subjects” below. Nova always arrives last, quietly settling into the bottom bunk with almost ceremonial timing. And heaven forbid anyone messes with the order—it would throw the whole night into chaos.
At first, I laughed it off. But eventually, it hit me: this wasn’t just a funny sleeping spot anymore. It had become the place. Each morning, the three of them remain tucked in long after sunrise, rising only when I’m about to leave for work. And when they do finally emerge, it’s with the same slow-motion grace you’d expect from overindulged movie stars.
Somewhere along the way, I became that person—the unapologetic, deeply committed cat parent. And you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Somewhere along the way, those little bunk beds stopped being a quirky joke and turned into a full-on lifestyle. They’re not just furniture anymore—they’re a ritual, a hierarchy, a feline institution. Guests come over, spot the bunk beds, and laugh—until they see the cats in them. Then it’s all “Are you kidding me?” and “Wait, they actually sleep like that?”
Yes. Yes, they do.
I’ve tried offering them other cozy spots—soft blankets on the couch, sunny windowsills, even a heated cat igloo. Rejected. Politely, but firmly. They have standards now. Doll furniture standards.
Sometimes I catch myself adjusting their pillows or straightening the little blankets before bed. I’ll even whisper “goodnight” like some kind of weird, oversized bunk bed butler. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because in the end, those silly thrifted bunk beds gave them more than a place to sleep. They gave them a home within our home—a space that’s entirely theirs, with rules they made and comfort they claimed. And watching them live their tiny-bed dreams every day? That’s the best part of being their human.
So no, I might not be a “normal” cat parent anymore.
But I am definitely a proud one.