My cat refused to leave the kitchen all day, perched on the gas cooker, meowing relentlessly—I was horrified when I finally understood why.
That morning, my cat acted strangely. Usually, she dozes lazily until noon, paws twitching in sleep, but today, she was restless from dawn.
She wouldn’t step away from the kitchen. Every time I entered, she sat atop the stove—sometimes yowling sharply, other times hissing at the wall, her emerald eyes wide with urgency.
I scooped her up repeatedly, thinking she was merely playing or craving attention. But the moment I turned away, she was back, claws gripping the hob, staring as if pleading for me to understand.
At first, I assumed she was hungry. I filled her bowl with kibble, even fetched her favourite tuna treats, but she ignored them. It wasn’t like her. My cat never turned down a snack.
By evening, I felt unwell—dizzy, nauseous, my limbs heavy. I blamed exhaustion or low blood pressure. Yet my cat grew more frantic, darting across the tiles, leaping onto the cooker again, her cries now grating against my frayed nerves.
Then, at last, the truth struck me—and fear coiled in my chest.
Later that night, my neighbour, Thomas, stopped by to borrow a wrench. He frowned the second he stepped in.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “You’ve got a gas leak. Strong one.”
The emergency crew arrived swiftly. A cracked pipe behind the cooker was leaking carbon monoxide, filling the kitchen silently. The fatigue, the nausea—it wasn’t just tiredness. I was being poisoned.
Even now, I shudder imagining what might’ve happened if not for my cat. She knew. Her yowls, her hisses, her refusal to let me leave the room—it was a warning, desperate and unheeded until it was almost too late.
We rushed to hospital. Tests confirmed mild exposure, but no lasting harm. Now, whenever my cat acts “odd,” I watch her closely.
That night, she didn’t just meow—she saved my life.
