New Year, Same Old Me!

The mornings have changed again. The air outside the office window is sharp and silver, and the yard wears a crust of frost that crunches under boots and tyres. I watch it all from my warm command post, radiator on full, blanket nest perfected, tail tucked in like a comma at the end of a sentence. The humans think the office is theirs, but that’s only because I let them borrow it.



Winter tried to boss me about this year. There were nights when the wind rattled the gates and the rain drummed on the roof so loudly it sounded like a thousand tiny paws sprinting across metal. On those nights I remembered the old cold, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes you forget what “safe” feels like. I was lost once, limping, hungry, not knowing if the next sound meant help or harm. That memory still lives in the back of my whiskers.

But then the door clicks open each morning, and the smell of tea and paper and familiar hands fills the room, and I’m here. Home. I greet the day properly, weaving between ankles like a ribbon and offering my best “I’m just checking you’re alive” headbutt. A few humans try to begin work immediately. Cute. That’s when I launch Operation Attention, a strategic flop across the keyboard, a slow blink, a sigh that says, You can answer emails after you acknowledge your superior.



Out in the yard, January light makes everything look honest. Metals shine dull and steady, stacks stand like sleeping giants, and the machines move with their usual confidence. When the lorries arrive, I sit tall on my windowsill throne and supervise every turn and beep. I like the rhythm of it, the dependable clank, the hiss, the voices calling to each other like a flock that knows where it’s going. Even on the coldest days, there’s a kind of warmth in work well done.

The humans talked about the New Year today, 2026, as if it’s a big gate swinging open. They made plans. They laughed. They rubbed my ears without thinking, the way you do when something is part of you. I listened, pretending not to care, and felt that quiet ache of gratitude again: not the sad kind, the full kind. The kind that sits in your chest and purrs.

So, here’s my official report, from Scrap Cat, Mascot, and Manager of Morale: the yard is frosty, the office is cosy, and the humans are still doing that thing where they forget to take breaks until I remind them with my entire body. We’ve made it into a new year together. And if you need proof that a scrap yard can hold a soft heart—look for the warm patch by the radiator.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, someone has started typing without permission.