Woke Cat Holds 90-Year-Old Captive for Two Years

“Help! I haven’t seen the sun in months!” pleads pensioner under feline oppression

For two years, Mildred Thorpe (90) of East Sussex has been held hostage in her own home—not by burglars, not by scammers, but by a deeply ideological, increasingly radicalized feline named Mr. Tibbles.

Her family, initially dismissive of her claims, grew concerned when she stopped leaving the house entirely, citing ‘cancellation anxiety’ and ‘oppressive feline scrutiny’ as the main reasons.

“I wanted to visit the garden centre,” she explained, her hands trembling over a cold cup of tea.

“But Tibbles said I needed to sit down and listen—really listen—to the voices of marginalized communities first.”

A Normal Cat—At First

Mrs. Thorpe adopted Mr. Tibbles from a local shelter two years ago, expecting a quiet companion that would keep her company.

At first, he was just that—a silent observer, watching the world with his inscrutable feline stare. But one fateful day, as she sat in her armchair reading an article titled ‘Are the Woke Taking Over?’ she heard him speak for the first time.

“Typical reactionary fear-mongering,” Tibbles had muttered, stretching lazily on the windowsill.

Mrs. Thorpe dropped her biscuit into her tea in shock.

“I said nothing,” the cat continued, licking his paw with effortless disdain.

“Because silence is often the loudest voice of all.”

From that moment, Tibbles never shut up.

A Regime of Progressive Oppression

At first, Mrs. Thorpe welcomed his insights, enjoying the debates, even if Tibbles always won. But soon, he became less of a companion and more of an enforcer.

– If she complained about oat milk, he knocked her mug off the table.

– If she sighed and said, “Back in my day…” he would leap onto her lap, pin her down, and force her to watch BBC documentaries about colonialism.

– Whenever she tried to change the subject, he would flick his tail impatiently and whisper, “Deflection is a tool of the privileged.”

It got worse.

She had started to sleep lightly, waking in the night to find him sitting at the foot of the bed, eyes glowing in the darkness.

“Check your biases,” he would purr.

“I just want to sleep,” she whimpered.

“Sleep?” His whiskers twitched. “Sleep is a privilege many do not have, Mildred.”

Escape Attempts & Psychological Breakdown

Desperate, Mrs. Thorpe tried to leave the house multiple times. But each time, she found herself paralyzed by his disapproval.

“I would reach for the door, and there he’d be—sitting in the hallway, tail flicking, his eyes like two judgmental pools of liquid Marxism.”

One afternoon, she made it as far as the driveway before his voice echoed in her mind:

“Do you really need more roses for your garden, or is this just another symptom of late-stage capitalism?”

She turned back immediately.

Her friends had stopped visiting. She told them Tibbles wouldn’t approve of their outdated views. She cancelled her holiday to Spain. Tibbles said travel was environmentally irresponsible. One day, she found herself whispering “problematic” under her breath as she browsed the Argos catalogue.

The Chilling Revelation

Mrs. Thorpe’s family staged an intervention. When they arrived at the house, they found her sitting in an empty armchair, talking to absolutely nothing.

There was no cat.

There had never been a cat.

“Tibbles!” she cried, looking around wildly. “Tell them you’re real! Tell them about the importance of allyship!”

Her grandson, pale and shaken, stepped into the kitchen and held up an open tin of Whiskas.

“She’s been eating cat food,” he murmured. “And… I think she thinks it’s organic.”

The truth crashed over her like a wave. The cat had been a manifestation of her own guilt—her own subconscious wrestling with decades of unchecked privilege, internalized biases, and one particularly bad Daily Mail artic

Collapsing into tears, Mrs. Thorpe finally whispered the words Tibbles had long been waiting to hear.

“I submit.”

The air felt lighter. The silence less judgmental.

For the first time in two years, Mrs. Thorpe stepped outside.

She didn’t know where she was going. But she knew this: she would never look at a litter box the same way again.