The Cat Lair: A Real Estate Horror Comedy

As a real estate agent, I’ve walked into plenty of surprises—awkward sellers still in bed, suspicious “smells,” an naked man once (true story for another time)—but nothing could prepare me for the feline fortress near the airport.

Before showings, listing agents usually leave helpful notes:
“Dog crated in basement—do not let out.”
“Snake habitat in hallway closet—just…be cool.”
So when I saw, “Seller will take their dogs for showings, but there will be a cat in the home. Please do not let him out,” I thought, “Perfect. One cat. Easy.”

I arrived a little early, just as the sellers were pulling out. We exchanged friendly waves, they drove off, and my clients pulled up. Right on cue, it started to rain—because of course it did. This is Colorado, where the weather has a personality disorder.

We hustled to the porch. I punched in the lockbox code, ninja-style blocked the crack in the door with my leg (cat prevention mode: activated), and we all slipped inside. So far, so good. No rogue tabby jailbreaks.

And then…darkness. Not like "Oh, it's dim in here." No. Like “Did we just walk into a coal mine at midnight?” darkness.

Cue me, flailing along the wall like I’m auditioning for a blindfolded escape room. I reach out and—fluff. Fur. Mystery cat. Panic. iPhone flashlight ON. I direct my buyers to stand still ("Don’t move. The cats can sense fear.") and start opening every blind like I’m breaking a curse.

Finally—ambient light! Well, sort of. Turns out the sellers had zero overhead lighting. Just moody lamps and some serious vampire energy. Apparently, they had just left, but the idea of turning on a lamp or two for their guests never crossed their minds. Hospitality level: cryptkeeper.

We began our shadowy tour, opening doors into the abyss, turning on lamps like we were unsealing ancient tombs. Then we hit the Primary Bedroom and—BAM! Cat ambush! A tabby flew at my bare legs like it was trained by SEAL Team 6. Not declawed. Definitely not friendly. Slightly bleeding, I whispered through clenched teeth, “Here’s the Primary Suite… vaulted ceilings...somewhere.”

Meanwhile, another cat was just chilling on the bed. Judging us.

We soldiered on. Opened the next door—another airborne cat. Opened the basement door—yet another feline missile. I was no longer showing a home; I was starring in a low-budget horror movie called Claws of the Catnado.

By the end, we didn’t know how many cats were in the house. Five? Ten? Were they multiplying? Were they even real?

My buyers made a swift escape to the front door. I stayed behind, closing blinds, turning off lamps, whispering apologies to the shadows. Every creak behind me could’ve been another sneak attack. I backed out slowly, leg once again blocking the door like a human security gate, praying the Cat Army didn’t launch one final blitz.

And that, friends, is the day I survived the world’s darkest, clawiest, most lamp-deprived home showing.

Moral of the story? Always wear pants. Always bring backup lighting. And if a listing says “There will be a cat”—mentally prepare for the entire cast of Cats: The Revenge.