Wally, one of our three cats and arguably the most judgmental roommate I’ve ever had, doesn’t just tolerate my art practice—he supervises it. From the moment I so much as think about entering the art room, he’s already there in the periphery, like a Shadow with whiskers.
Today I was doing my “real job” (read: digital drudgery) when he slinked in, sat down, and stared—quiet, stern, with that cat face that screams, Why are you wasting your opposable thumbs on that nonsense when there’s twine to be tangled and objects to be transformed?
And yeah, maybe I’m projecting. Maybe Wally’s face is just… his face. But the truth is, I use him as a stand-in for my own inner critic—a furry embodiment of that ever-present voice whispering, This isn’t good enough. You’re not doing enough. You should be better by now.
That voice? That’s Shadow. And Wally? He holds space for it without saying a damn word. Which makes him kind of perfect.
Cats Are What You Let Them Be
But Wally isn’t just a four-legged manifestation of shame and artistic pressure. He’s also a creativity catalyst. A dark muse in a fur coat.
Case in point: my latest micro-project. You know those giant kitchen utensils that refuse to stay in their drawer? Like they’ve unionized and are staging a coup every time you open it? I found the perfect place to contain their rebellion—a leftover coffee can.
(And no, not the sturdy, old-school kind. We’re in the era of flimsy cardboard canisters that pretend to be useful. But I’ll make it work.)
I wrapped it in thick twine—nothing fancy, just rustic enough to pretend it’s intentional—and boom: functional, upcycled, and weirdly satisfying. Wally supervised the entire operation, occasionally batting at the twine like he was offering creative direction. He wasn’t. But I gave him credit anyway.
Art Is What Happens When You Stop Trying to Impress Yourself
That’s the thing: the project didn’t need to be impressive. It just needed to get done. It scratched the itch to make something—not for sale, not for social, not for some imaginary audience, but for the part of me that feels better when I create instead of spiral.
We talk a lot about transformation in art, but sometimes the most important thing being transformed is the artist. Wally doesn’t care if I make a masterpiece or wrap a coffee can in rope. He shows up. Stares. Hangs out. Demands nothing but presence.
Maybe that’s why I keep making things—even small, utilitarian things. Because presence is enough. Because judgment can wait. Because there’s still a kind of magic in turning the forgettable into the functional and calling it finished.
Wally Oversees. I Obey.
The plan is simple: wrap the can in heavy twine for a rustic look. Wally will, of course, be by my side, offering his silent support, probably hoping that his involvement will net him a string or a treat. Spoiler: it will.
The project took thirty minutes. The result? A surprisingly cool holder for mutinous utensils and a silent victory over the voice that says, This is a waste of time. Spoiler: it wasn’t.
So tell me—have your pets ever nudged you back toward creativity? Not with words, obviously, but with looks, energy, or pure stubborn companionship?
Because if you’ve got a Wally in your life, maybe it’s time to make something. Anything. Even a damn utensil holder.
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