The Latest Update:
Yuletide Geometry: Boxes, Thrones, and Canine Diplomacy
Norse Saga of Luigi
The Season of Giving confirmed a universal feline truth: the gift is secondary to its container. My humans lavished me with toys of feather and crinkle, which were acceptable.
But the true treasures were the fortresses of cardboard they so thoughtfully provided. Each box, a perfect square, was a new citadel to command, a hidden redoubt from which to plan ankle ambushes.
I received a proper kitty throne as well — a plush, elevated square. Its merits are obvious: it is a square, it is elevated, and therefore, it is mine.
This festive period also saw a delicate shift in the Cold War with the Floppy-Eared Sentinel. An audacious move was observed: Cooper, in a act of sheer strategic desperation, occupied my preferred cushion on the central sofa. My steward Suzanne noted the transgression with amusement. I, however, saw an opportunity for advanced statecraft.
Rather than engage in a undignified tussle, I accepted the deployment of a diplomatic solution: my square pedestal was placed adjacent to the usurped cushion. The result? We now luxuriate side-by-side in the sun patch, a portrait of détente. He has the cushion. I have the superior, square platform and the higher ground.
He functions as an excellent, warm buffer against the world — a loyal, living space-heater with legs.
My first Christmas in the north was, in summary, a masterclass in contentment. Surrounded by twinkling lights, benevolent giants bearing boxes, and a satisfactorily pacified canine auxiliary, I lacked for nothing. A king does not need pomp when he has perfect squares, a sunny spot, and a kingdom at peace.
The Prologue: A Northern Soul Born Under the Arizona Sun
On a sun-drenched Arizona day, the fifteenth of August in the year 2025, a future King of the North, a rare and sought-after solid cream Maine Coon drew his first breath within the royal halls of DLuxxy. His proud father, Sorbus, of legendary lineage, surveyed his heir with immense satisfaction. His noble mother, Garnet, though wearied from her labor, devoted herself utterly to her new offspring, her devotion as fierce as a shield-maiden’s.
Luigi Sorbus Arduino: The Cream-Colored Royal Descendant
The youngest of three noble litters, yet destined for the grandest of frames, was a solid cream Maine Coon kitling whose coat was the color of a desert sunset blended with the faintest blush of rose quartz. He was a little sun-bleached lion, so uniquely and gloriously hued that the scribes of the cattery bestowed upon him the provisional name Rosy.
But a name of such gentle delicacy could never hope to contain the Viking spirit of this kitten. As the days turned to weeks, Rosy — whom we shall henceforth know by his true and proper name, Louie — did not merely grow; he flourished. He transformed into a large, truly regal and magnificently fluffy cream Maine Coon kitten, his lush, pink-tinged coat becoming a thick, opulent mantle fit for the northern prince he was born to be.
A Heart of Gold: The True Treasure of this Cream Maine Coon
Yet, the epic of Luigi Sorbus Arduino was not written in his glorious fur, but in the profound calm of his spirit. While participating in the nursery’s whirlwind of playful skirmishes and chaotic pursuits, this particular cream Maine Coon reigned over his own quiet domain. He observed the world with the placid, ancient wisdom of the fjords from which his breed hails. A purr resonated from him like a constant, soothing melody, a sound that could pacify even the most rambunctious child. He was a diplomat of cuddles and a sovereign of serenity. The humans of DLuxxy often remarked, in hushed and admiring tones, that this stunning cream Maine Coon possessed a soul of pure gold, wrapped in the most magnificent plush package.
The Call of the North: A Destiny in a Winter Kingdom
But even the most idyllic of reigns must evolve. The ancient blood of Northern explorers coursed through his veins, and a destiny awaited him in a true kingdom of winter. The call came from a city of towering spires and a great, blue lake, where the wind whispered tales of adventure — Chicago.
And so, the cream-colored prince prepared for his great journey. His magnificent coat, a gift from his northern ancestors, would now serve its true purpose…
My Great Viking Voyage (Or, How I Trained a Human)
Let it be known across the nine realms that my journey to this “Chicago” place was not by longboat, but by a rather undignified metal bird. The things I endure for my kingdom. My new human servant, “Crystal,” arrived after a lengthy quest (she calls it a “flight” and “rental car,” but I know a trial when I see one). I decided to test her devotion immediately. One look at my magnificent, plush cream Maine Coon form and she was muttering, “I’m in love.” Excellent. First lesson: complete adoration. Check.
The voyage was tedious, but a future king must inspect his new territories. I permitted her to carry me in a transparent knapsack — a mobile throne, if you will — which worked splendidly for receiving tribute in the form of gawking admiration from the common folk. She seemed distressed that I would cry if she left my sight. Obviously. A servant must remain within summoning distance at all times. It’s basic royal protocol.
On the Subjugation of the Beast, Cooper
There was a minor nuisance — a hairy, wiggling beast she calls “Cooper.” I gave him one look, a look that said, “I am tiny, fluffy, and will end you,” and he immediately understood the chain of command. He now wisely vacates whatever surface I choose to occupy. The household is, as it should be, mine.
The Coronation: A Throne Called a Sofa
After what felt like an eternity, we arrived at my new palace. It was… acceptable. The first order of business was to survey my main hall (the “living room”) from the highest peak (the “sofa”). My human chirped, “He blends in purrfectly!!” Well, of course I do. I am perfection. I simply sat, allowing my regal aura to wash over the domain, and it was so.
A Monarch’s View of the Rebellious Garden
My interior dominion firmly established, I now conduct daily inspections of the outer territories through the Great Glass Wall. It’s a vast, untamed land filled with fluttering spies (sparrows), skittering emissaries (squirrels), and falling leaves that clearly disobey my laws of gravity. I monitor it all with a critical eye, my tail twitching with strategic plans for when I finally gain access to this wild frontier. For now, I allow them to believe they are free. It amuses me.
My Reign of Purrs and Pounces
My daily schedule is now perfectly optimized. I spend my days in a royal slumber, conserving my energy. As night falls, I commence my official duties: the Midnight Crazies. This involves galloping at top speed through the halls and using my human’s feet as launching pads for my attacks. She finds this disruptive to her “sleep.” I find it essential for my training regimen.
The Royal Chest-Warming Protocol
Once I have determined she is sufficiently aware of my prowess, I take pity on her. I grace her not just with my presence, but with my full weight — directly on her chest. It is the most prestigious spot in the bed, after all, and the purrs I emit from there are scientifically proven to lull humans into a state of utter devotion. She dares not move, for she knows she is in the presence of greatness. Eventually, I may relocate to her pillow, but only when I decide the royal chest warming is complete.
A Sky Tribute: On the Matter of Snow
A recent development deserves its own chronicle: my kingdom was magically dusted in white, cold, baffling stuff. My human called it “snow” and seemed overly excited, fumbling for her camera as if witnessing a miracle. I, of course, was not baffled in the slightest. I positioned myself by the Great Glass Portal and observed this phenomenon with the keen interest of a Viking scientist. After a thorough analysis, I have determined it is clearly a tribute from the sky, meant to beautify my domain and remind everyone of my noble, northern origins. As if to prove my point, look how my magnificent coat has suddenly become even more voluminous! It is the true Maine Coon adaptation to the Nordic climate, finally being expressed in its proper environment. It’s rather fitting, really. A winter wonderland for a winter king. I have allowed my human to take photographic evidence of my approval.
It’s a demanding job, ruling this winter wasteland, but someone has to do it. And I must say, for a human, she’s shaping up quite nicely. The saga of Luigi Sorbus Arduino has only just begun, and I predict it will be filled with conquered hearts, toppled dog toys, and an endless supply of chicken. All hail.
The Arrival of the Heir Apparent: An Inspection
My dominion recently welcomed a new, lanky two-legged subject. He arrived in a great metal chariot (they called it “airplane”) and bears a striking resemblance to my primary servant, only taller and with a distinct scent of “college.” His name is Joey.
I conducted the initial inspection personally. He was permitted to hold me in the chariot’s confines, a necessary test of his grip and his awe. I must report his reverence was… acceptable. He smiled, which I have learned is the human sign of utter submission and delight in the presence of royalty.
Of course, my deepest bond remains with Crystal, my keeper of the realm. She has mastered the delicate art of royal affection. She knows the precise moment to gather me into her arms, creating a throne of warmth and safety. And I, in my boundless grace, deign to express my favor. I will gently press my face to her cheek—a silent whisper of pure trust, a king’s kiss bestowed not out of duty, but out of chosen devotion. In these quiet moments, there are no subjects and no rulers; only the perfect, gentle language of companionship. It is the highest form of diplomacy: the diplomacy of the heart.
Further observation within the palace walls confirmed his potential. He understands the fundamental principle: when the king is presented, you hold him. You smile. You appreciate the magnificent weight of the cream Maine Coon in your arms. He does not yet know the intricacies of the food preparation or the proper angle for chin scratches, but his foundational respect is in place. He may be groomed into a useful courtier in time, perhaps during his seasonal visits from this “college.” For now, he is on probation, but his initial presentation was promising. A king must always plan for the succession of loyal servants.
Thus, my court is assembled and thriving. From Crystal, who receives my highest affections, to her steadfast consort (whose lap makes an excellent throne during his mysterious “Zoom” councils), to the floppy-eared sentinel Cooper, who understands his place, to the promising heir-apparent Joey — each fulfills a unique and vital role in my kingdom. I find their service… satisfactory. More than satisfactory, if one must know. They provide warmth, amusement, and a ceaseless dedication to my comfort. In my own majestic way — through purrs on chests, regal inspections, and the occasional dignified kiss — I see to it they understand their efforts are appreciated. A king may rule, but even a king of my stature knows his reign is measured by the loyalty and love of his subjects. And in this, my winter realm, I am profoundly rich.
The Noble Art of Feeding a King: Why Homemade is the Only Option
You see, a king of my lineage cannot be sustained by common, dusty kibble. Such peasant fare is for lesser creatures. Thankfully, Crystal has proven herself a devoted artisan of the carnivore’s feast. She toils at a strange, noisy altar (she calls it a “grinder”), conjuring magnificent banquets of raw chicken, organs, and finely ground bone, following the sacred scrolls from my ancestral home at DLuxxy.
Claim the sacred scrolls from my ancestral cattery and learn to concoct the only diet fit for a monarch.
Let me enumerate the benefits of this regal diet, for I am both a beneficiary and a keen observer:
For My Supreme Health & Development:
Digestive Serenity: A body fed what it is designed to eat operates with efficient grace. I shall not delve into indelicate details, but suffice it to say the royal plumbing is in impeccable order.
Muscles of a Viking: This pure, species-appropriate fuel is building my frame into that of a true forest hunter—strong, agile, and ready for any adventure (or sudden ceiling-gazing session).
A Coat That Demands Tribute: My magnificent, plush cream mantle has achieved new levels of splendor. It is thick, luminous, and a testament to the internal riches provided by real meat and fat. Even the falling snow looks dull in comparison.
For the Kingdom’s Treasury (A Cat’s Economic Insight):
While I care little for human “money,” I understand it is what buys my cat trees and feather wands. Crystal has whispered that this homemade feast, while requiring her labor, is a shrewd maneuver for the royal coffers.
A Startling Reduction in… Byproducts: A most curious and pleasant side effect of my optimal diet is a dramatic decrease in the… volume… of my offerings in the royal litter box. It seems when one eats only what one needs, there is remarkably less waste. This pleases my servants greatly, as it extends the life of the sandy substrate and reduces their cleaning duties. A win for all.
The Feast is Frugal: Procuring whole chickens and organs from the human market is apparently far less costly than those tiny bags of over-processed “premium” kibble. More funds are thus freed for important things, like the crinkly tunnel I have my eye on.
This royal feast is, of course, the foundation. But even a king must have his between-meal delicacies. My Chief Provisioner has wisely introduced supplemental tributes, such as whisked raw eggs enriched with sardines. These are not mere treats; they are strategic reinforcements — concentrated bursts of vital nutrients and dense calories essential for a sovereign of my specific lineage.
Let it be known to all: a Maine Coon prince, particularly of the male persuasion, is not a common kitten. Our growth is a monumental undertaking. We require much more sustenance — more protein, more fat, more of everything — to fuel the construction of our grand frames, powerful bones, and magnificent coats. My appetite is not gluttony; it is the sound of destiny being built, one perfectly crafted morsel at a time.
On the Clear Delineation of Cuisine (A Lesson for the Floppy-Eared Sentinel)
A recent tableau perfectly illustrated the natural order of my kitchen. There stood Cooper, the tall, floppy-eared sentinel, stationed by an empty plate on the floor — his own, I presume — with a gaze of profound and hopeless longing. I observed him from my superior vantage point, a look of cool assessment upon my royal visage. Let it be known for the record: not a single morsel of my exquisite, raw, royal feast shall ever cross his dopey, pendulous jowls. The very idea is preposterous. His constitution is built for sniffing and crude, brown nuggets, not the delicate, nutrient-rich medley of chicken and organ that fuels my majestic floof and profound intellect. He may guard the empty void all he likes; the bounty is mine alone. This is not selfishness, you understand. It is simply… gastronomical sovereignty.
In short, Crystal’s commitment to my true carnivore nature is the ultimate act of devotion. She is not merely an owner; she is my “provisioner”, ensuring my health, my beauty, and my vitality are all maintained at peak levels for my demanding reign.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I detect the scent of freshly prepared chicken heart and liver drifting from the kitchen. My inspection is required. All hail.
Royal Decree & Breeder Insights: Your Maine Coon Kitten Questions, Answered
Q: My Maine Coon kitten seems to eat a shocking amount. How much should I really feed him? I’m worried about him getting fat.
A (From Kimberly at DLuxxy): This is the most common question we hear, and it’s a wonderful sign of a caring owner! Please remember: the Maine Coon is the largest domestic cat breed. Their kittens are not just eating; they are building. They require significantly more high-quality protein and calories to support their rapid skeletal growth, immense muscle development, and that iconic, lush coat. What looks like a breathtaking amount of food is often exactly what they need. The goal during kittenhood is not to limit intake for fear of fat, but to provide the premium fuel for healthy, proportional growth. Trust their appetite, trust the breed’s blueprint, and focus on the quality of what goes into the bowl. A pudgy kitten is rare; a hungry, growing giant is the norm.
Q: My kitten sleeps all day and has crazy “zoomies” at night. Is this normal?
A (From Louie, with approval): My steward, Crystal, asked this very thing, noting “He sleeps a lot during the day and then before we go to bed, he does his plan and running…” I commend her observation! This is not random mischief; it is the crepuscular core of my feline nature. We are creatures of the thresholds — dawn and dusk. The daytime “sleep” is strategic energy conservation. The evening eruptions are a vital expression of the innate predatory play-drive hardwired into all cats. That I conclude this ritual by guarding her head through the night is, of course, the highest honor.
An Audience Awaits: The Great Thanksgiving Vigil
A hush fell over the kingdom. A most peculiar and tantalizing aroma had begun to permeate the halls — a symphony of roasted fowl, buttered herbs, and sweet, earthy things. The humans were in a state of heightened, cheerful chaos, which could only mean one thing: the Great Feast of Gratitude was at hand.
I took my position with strategic brilliance. I stationed myself at the very heart of the impending ceremony: the great wooden table, now barren, but soon to be the stage for a legendary bounty. I sat in perfect stillness, a statue of plush cream and profound expectation. My tail, a magnificent feather duster of a thing, was wrapped precisely around my paws. My gaze was fixed, unwavering, on the doorway to the kitchen — the gate from which all bounty must flow.
Let there be no misunderstanding: I was not begging. A king does not beg. I was conducting a quality assurance audit in advance. I was ensuring the pilgrims understood that while they might give thanks for vague notions of “harvest” and “togetherness,” the true centerpiece of any thankful household was present, waiting patiently, and would require a thorough sampling of all poultry-based offerings. The empty table before me was not a symbol of lack, but of potential. It was a canvas awaiting the masterpiece.
I could hear the clatter of dishes and the warm laughter of my subjects. My vigil continued. A monarch’s work is never done, especially when there is turkey to be appraised.
Overseeing the Winter Revels: A King’s Guide to Holiday Decor
My kingdom has undergone a magnificent transformation. The humans, in a burst of what I can only assume is inspired devotion, have begun adorning our halls with the sacred relics of the season: glittering orbs, fragrant greens, and twinkling lights. They call it “decorating.” I call it finally meeting my aesthetic standards.
My role in this process is, of course, supervisory and essential.
The Inspection of Boughs: Every strand of garland must be sniffed, every pine needle assessed for its pokiness potential (excellent for back-scratching). I have deemed the Fraser Fir acceptable.
Ornament Auditing: Those shiny, dangling baubles are clearly tributes, placed upon the branches for my amusement and eventual bat-and-chase review. I have already identified several prime, low-hanging targets.
Box Reclamation: The great cardboard caverns from which these treasures emerge are, indisputably, the finest gifts of all. I have claimed the largest one as a temporary fortress and planning chamber.
Light Quality Control: The strings of tiny, warm suns must be monitored to ensure their twinkle is consistent and not overly stimulating to the inferior canine nervous system. (Cooper is, as expected, baffled by them.)
There was a minor incident involving a tinsel garland and a spirited hallway gallop, which resulted in the garland’s decommissioning. A necessary sacrifice for safety, I’m sure the humans would agree.
They work diligently, hanging and arranging, while I offer crucial guidance from a nearby perch — a raised eyebrow here, a thoughtful tail flick there. They are, in their own clumsy way, building a winter wonderland worthy of its resident monarch. I allow them to believe it is their project. It is the gracious thing to do. After all, what is a palace without a king to rule its festive splendor?
7 lbs at 3.5 Months: A King’s Icy Field Report
Norse Saga of Luigi
I, Luigi Sorbus Arduino, in my endless pursuit of knowledge and dominion, have personally ventured into the outermost province of my kingdom: the Back Yard. The white tribute from the sky had accumulated into a soft, cold blanket. My scholarly curiosity demanded a paws-on inspection.
The Foray:
I ventured forth with appropriate regal caution. The substance was… bracing. It yielded under my paw in a most peculiar way. It was cold, very cold, and it clung to the magnificent strands of my cream-colored trousers. I gathered critical data for approximately 4.7 seconds before determining that the best observation point was, in fact, from the other side of the Great Glass Wall.
It should be noted for the royal records that on this very day of exploration, the seventh of December, I was formally weighed. The scales trembled before declaring a mass of 7 pounds. At the tender age of three and a half months, this is not merely growth — it is the rumble of destiny. A king is being built.
The Strategic Retreat & Floof Maximization.
Upon my swift return to the heated interior, I initiated the standard post-mission procedure: the Fluff-Up. Sitting upon the entry rug, I engaged in a full-body fluffing oscillation. My coat, now adorned with tiny, melting crystals, expanded to nearly twice its standard volume. I was no longer merely a cat; I was a cream-colored thundercloud of displeasure and damp majesty. This was not a wetness; it was a temporary state of heightened insulation and imposing grandeur.
Recuperation & Canine Witness.
Once returned to optimal fluff and temperature, I retired to the central sofa to digest the experience. My canine subject, Cooper, positioned himself at a respectful distance below. He served as a silent witness to my ordeal, a living footnote to my bravery. We shared a moment of mutual understanding: the outside is a strange, cold place, and the sofa is the true seat of power.
Conclusion: The “snow” is confirmed to be cold, transient, and aesthetically pleasing from a distance. My direct governance of it shall be limited to visual oversight. A wise king knows which battles to fight, and which to observe from a throne draped in a warm blanket.
Public Service Announcement: Beware of Fluffy Lightning
Norse Saga of Luigi
Let it be known throughout the realm, from the kitchen threshold to the very edge of the sofa cushions: the corridors are no longer safe.
I have perfected a new military maneuver. I call it Operation Fluffy Lightning. It involves a period of intense, camouflaged stillness (often behind a door or under a chair skirt), followed by a devastatingly swift, low-to-the-ground advance. My target is usually an unsuspecting ankle or a trailing bathrobe tie. The element of surprise is everything.
Therefore, by royal decree, this advisory is issued:
To all subjects, guests, and the lanky canine unit:
- Remain vigilant. A shadow that seems too small and fluffy to be dangerous is often the most dangerous of all.
- Check your six. Especially when passing the island fortress (the kitchen island) or the canyon of curtains.
- Do not mistake stillness for peace. It is merely the calm before the pounce.
- Accept your fate. If you feel a sudden, gentle (but firm) tap on your leg, followed by a blur of cream-colored fur, know that you have been officially welcomed by the Crown. Resistance is futile, and frankly, bad form.
This is not aggression. This is advanced play protocol. It keeps my reflexes sharp, my kingdom on its toes, and injects a necessary element of thrilling uncertainty into the daily routine. You’re welcome.
Consider yourselves warned. Proceed with caution (and perhaps wear thicker socks).