Markus Anecdotes - Morty's Commute

Written by Markus with Photos by Markus

Not often, but in average once a week, I need to commute to office. It’s a max. 1.5 hour journey that I do not mind taking. But last time, while gazing out of the window and looking at an orange sun-rise over the passing farmlands, I wondered “How would my dear cat experience this?” “What if Morty joins me?”. Hence I started fantasising from my cat Morty’s perspective:

Morty’s commute

The alarm goes off at six forty-five, though I never need it. My internal chronometer is far superior to any human device—they are slow, clumsy, and emit noises like dying birds attempting Morse code. I yawn, stretch each limb with the grace of a lion, and flick my tail twice. That is the signal: the day begins.

Breakfast is a precise ritual. Kibble arranged in geometrical perfection, a small portion of wet food for morale, and a sip of water that tastes faintly of destiny. The dogs sit nearby, watching with wide-eyed envy, drooling pitifully over the wet food like amateur beasts. I ignore them. Sentiment is inefficient, a human invention, useless for serious professionals.

By seven, I am ready. My human fumbles for keys, phone, and existential purpose. We step into the Dutch morning, cold and glistening with dew, smelling faintly of bread, wet grass, and the unique blend of human ambition. Cobblestones shimmer under our feet like tiny mirrors reflecting chaotic order. A neighbor’s cat observes silently from the fence. I nod politely. Courtesy is maintained. Even amateurs can benefit from lessons in discipline.

The five-minute walk to Tilburg Reeshof station is my reconnaissance mission. I catalog every smell: fresh bread from bakeries, wet grass, faint engine oil, and an occasional pizza crust abandoned by humans too lazy to throw it away. Humans scurry, eyes glued to screens, faces grim, pretending efficiency is natural. One cyclist wobbles dangerously, narrowly avoiding a lamppost. Amateur. Competence is measured in sniffing, observation, and patience—not speed. I weave gracefully around puddles, ducking under a briefcase swung by a panicked commuter.

At the station, the atmosphere is a ballet of chaos and order. A newspaper stand emits the nostalgic scent of ink and paper. Someone has dropped a pretzel, watched by a daring crow. Children run wildly, rolling small suitcases while parents sprint behind, apologizing to strangers for imagined offenses. A man with a newspaper twists it into a hat for his toddler, who promptly spills juice over a nearby bench. The overhead speaker chirps, “Intercity naar Amsterdam Zuid vertrekt over vijf minuten.” Humans check their watches obsessively, though the train will arrive precisely on time. The Dutch are disciplined. A five-minute delay would trigger polite but scathing complaints, submitted with formal indignation.

The train arrives with a metallic sigh, doors sliding open like mechanical tulips. Humans surge forward; I leap elegantly aboard, invisible and unnoticed. Window ledge secured. Sunbeam acquired. Optimal observation position achieved.

Across from me, a businessman balances his briefcase, laptop, coffee, and existential dread. Every jolt makes his head snap. He mutters in Dutch about deadlines and quarterly reports. Amateur. I blink slowly, conveying solidarity. He remains oblivious.

Nearby, a student blasts heartbreak-pop through leaky headphones. Crumbs cascade onto the floor like tiny meteors. I bat one delicately, observing its trajectory. She gasps, scrambles to pick it up, and drops another. Amateur.

An elderly lady knits quietly, needles clicking rhythmically. She notices me and smiles. Respect is acknowledged silently. Between professionals, acknowledgment suffices.

The businessman in the corner sneezes violently, sending papers flying. Another commuter lunges to help, trips over a suitcase, and knocks over a coffee cup. Spilled liquid spreads like a small lake. I flick my tail. Human clumsiness is endlessly entertaining.

The train hums forward. Fields, canals, cows, and wind turbines pass by. Humans glance briefly, cameras raised, barely noticing. Birds perform aerial tricks, cyclists wobble precariously along roads, and sunlight bends across puddles like molten gold. A man dashes for the doors, coffee in hand, umbrella opening mid-run. Chaos. It smacks another commuter, who retaliates verbally in Dutch. I flick my tail. Human conflict is endlessly amusing.

Utrecht approaches. The businessman drops a pen, then a notebook, muttering despair. I blink slowly. Amateur.

Utrecht Centraal: a father attempts to carry a stroller, suitcase, and child up the escalator. Stroller tilts. Child squeals. Father mutters. Spectators snap photos. Balance is an art, practiced rarely by humans. Another father attempts to hold two children and a shopping bag; the eldest child yells instructions and the youngest cries for a snack. Amateur management.

Inside the train, a sandwich flake falls near me. A teenager reaches for it. I withdraw. Ethics demand observation only. Amateur.

The conductor walks by. “Still no ticket, Morty?” he says with a grin. I flick my tail. “Still no pockets,” I reply silently. Respect among professionals is tacit.

A tourist struggles with a pretzel. It falls. Chaos ensues. Commuters laugh politely. Educational moment: gravity is sacred.

A woman trips over her suitcase, spilling brochures, and mutters apologies in a rapid flurry of Dutch syllables. Nearby, a man sneezes violently, showering the air with coffee aroma and faint traces of despair. Delightful. I flick a paw in playful disapproval.

Across the aisle, a child leans too far out of the seat and tips a small backpack onto the floor. Pens roll under chairs. A man in a suit attempts a heroic rescue, toppling slightly and muttering apologies. Amateur heroism.

The scenery unfolds in slow grandeur: fields of green bisected by canals, cows grazing with stoic patience, wind turbines rotating like zen masters, reflections in puddles that momentarily capture the sky’s expression. Humans glance briefly, failing to appreciate subtlety.

Another umbrella takes flight on the platform, creating a mild chain reaction: collisions, apologies, and scrambling humans. I flick my tail in satisfaction. Comedy in motion.

The student with headphones tangles in her cords again, backpack spilling pens across the floor. Amateur. Humans are consistently inefficient, and I catalog each mishap meticulously.

A cyclist attempts to board the train with a folded bike. It topples slightly; he apologizes to no one. Dutch obsession with bicycles is endlessly amusing.

A commuter drops a phone. Two people dive simultaneously. Coordination rare. I blink slowly, impressed only slightly.

Across from me, a woman with a bright red scarf fumbles with a map, coffee, and suitcase. She rotates the map repeatedly, consulting it as if deciphering an ancient text. Amateur.

An elderly passenger mutters politely at minor inconvenience, demonstrating stoicism wrapped in civility. Admirable. I nod.

At every station, micro-dramas repeat with minor variations: a child drops a lunchbox, father apologizes; a man drops a phone, teens dive; a tourist drops a coffee, flustered apologies ensue. The businessman trips again over his laptop bag. Patterns emerge. Humans are repetitive. Comedy arises from predictability.

On one stretch, a pigeon sneaks aboard, startling three passengers simultaneously. One flails with an umbrella, another coughs into a sleeve, the third attempts to shoo the bird while spilling a paper bag of pastries. Efficiency and chaos co-exist. I flick my tail, noting each reaction with precision.

Perch secured, tail curled. Sunlight casts warm streaks across the window. Train hums beneath like a metal cat. Humans peer at screens, shuffle papers, carry briefcases with illusion of purpose. They move, yet fail to observe. I move, and I see everything.

Every stop delivers new comedy: umbrellas in puddles, laptops teetering, tourists awkwardly photographing themselves, the businessman dropping items repeatedly, the student tangled in headphones for the fourth time today. Humans endlessly fascinating.

A gust blows another umbrella onto the platform, initiating a chase, minor collisions, polite apologies. I flick my tail in satisfaction. Comedy in motion.

On a particularly long ride, a man attempts to balance a thermos, a laptop, a small dog, and a backpack. He manages two. The dog leaps to safety. Thermos spills, coffee arcs in a perfect parabola onto his papers. Amateur.

A teenager tries to record a TikTok mid-commute, nearly tripping over a bag. Another commuter grabs the phone, ensuring total chaos. Morty, observer, remains amused.

Final stop. I descend gracefully, ignoring barking dogs, curious cats, and neighborly glances. Neighborhood smells of bread, wet grass, and possibility. I see a mouse! Blink, satisfied. Commuting is theater, poetry, sociology, physics rolled into one. Humans rush; I witness absurdity and delight.

Every stop, every mishap, every tiny human panic noted. Tomorrow promises more trains, passengers, minor chaos, infinite amusement. Humans spot me: “Look, a cat on the train!” I blink slowly—the universal feline expression: Observe excellence.

Commuting is more than arrival. Theater, sociology, art, physics, with bonus humor provided free of charge by unsuspecting humans.

That night, I sleep curled near a window, dreaming of rhythmic rails, spilled coffee, wobbling cyclists, pigeons, umbrellas, and the infinite comedy of Homo sapiens attempting efficiency.

Next week, we do it all again.