Pisces queen. Cancer survivor. Professional couch thief. Semi-aquatic. This is my website. I made my dads build it for me.
Hi. I'm Luna. I'm a cat — and before you say anything, yes I know I'm a little bigger than your cat. I'm also more beautiful than your cat. I'm sorry you had to find out this way.
People ask if I have a "problem." I don't have a problem. I have a collection. There's a difference. Every single one of these tennis balls was personally selected, evaluated, and approved by me after rigorous mouth-testing. The fact that I sleep with them is called dedication. You wouldn't understand — you don't have hobbies.
My dads took me to this dock and I just started modeling. Nobody asked me to. It's instinct. The light was perfect, the wind was hitting right, and I gave them what they came for. You're welcome for this content.
Every March 13th the world stops to celebrate me. There's a tiara. There's a tennis ball. There are treats. This is what happens when you're the most important person in the house and everyone knows it.
The vet said I "needed" to wear this. I said okay but only because pink is my color. I'm a Pisces — we accessorize trauma. Notice the tongue? That's called serving.
"Cats don't swim." Wrong. This cat swims. I contain multitudes. The look on people's faces when a 75-pound cat cannonballs into their pool? Priceless.
For the doubters: here I am, in the water, swimming. With my whole body. On purpose. This is not a rescue situation. This is a lifestyle choice. Michael Phelps could never.
Yes, that's me in a kayak. Yes, I ride up front because I'm the captain. My dad paddles. I navigate. We have a system. I take my maritime responsibilities very seriously. Land is optional.
Okay, I'll get real for a second — but just a second, because I'm a cat and we have dignity. In 2024, they found cancer. The surgery had a 30% chance of me making it off the operating table. Thirty percent. The bill was $30,000. My dads didn't even hesitate. They said "do it" before the vet finished the sentence.
But I will say this: cancer picked the wrong Pisces b*tch. Oops — excuse my language. I walked into that operating room, I walked out, and I've been cancer-free for 18 months and counting. My dads cried for approximately 47 hours straight. Very undignified of them. I was brave the whole time. Obviously.
✓ 18+ months cancer-free
Every night I select one (1) toy from my collection and I hold it while I watch TV. This is non-negotiable. If you try to take it, I will simply look at you with side eyes, sigh dramatically, or growl at you until you give it back and also give me a treat for the emotional damage. My dads fall for it every time. Every. Single. Time. It's almost too easy.
I don't understand the concept of "closed doors." If you are on the other side of a door, I need to be there too. Not because I want anything. I just need to confirm that you still exist and that you haven't forgotten about me in the last eleven seconds. This face gets the door opened within three seconds. Four, tops.
I spend approximately 16 hours a day asleep, which I'm told is "very cat-like behavior." Correct. Because I am a cat. Between naps, I dedicate significant time to licking my face and paws meticulously because hygiene is non-negotiable when you're this pretty. My dads call it "doing her little baths." I call it having standards.
"We said we'd have boundaries. We said she wouldn't sleep on the furniture. That lasted about four minutes."
— Luna's dads, defeated