Trying to photograph my four cats is like directing an all-male cast of furry divas, each with his own contract rider and lighting demands. One is a photogenic heartthrob: light-colored, always catching the perfect beam of sunlight like he moonlights as an influencer. Two are tuxedo-clad semi-voids, perpetually toeing the line between “distinguished gentleman” and “sentient smudge.” And then there’s the fully void chaos agent: a pitch-black gremlin with one fang that sticks out like he’s halfway through a vampire transformation and doesn’t know it yet. Getting a decent shot of all four is less photography and more paranormal investigation.

Let’s revisit the most recent shoot for the four horsemen of the Catacalypse before the actual, literal apocalypse starts.

Arizona isn’t just photogenic, he’s annoyingly photogenic. He’s the feline equivalent of that one friend who looks flawless in every candid, even under fluorescent lighting. With his light fur, striking green eyes, and a natural ability to pose like he’s been watching America’s Next Top Meowdel, Arizona makes every photo look intentional, editorial, and vaguely aspirational. He sits. He stares into the distance. He finds the one shaft of light like it’s his spiritual calling. Meanwhile, I’m contorting myself on the floor like a Cirque du Soleil dropout just trying to get his good side… and somehow he still makes me look like the amateur.

Dice is what happens when you cross a baby bat with a velvet throw pillow and give it abandonment issues. He’s one of the tuxedo twins, a semi-void whose default setting is “attached to your lap, shoulder, or soul.” He’s always available for cuddles, always nearby, and somehow always draped in lighting that makes his black fur eat shadows like it’s calorie-dense. Getting a clean photo of him is like trying to photograph a black hole in a tux: it’s theoretically possible, but you’re mostly capturing vibes and whiskers. Still, he tries. He wants to be seen. Just… maybe not by your camera’s autofocus.

Samson isn’t just old, he’s seasoned. At 17, he’s a battle-scarred tuxedo who looks like he’s seen things in alleyways that would make a raccoon weep. He walks like a retired street enforcer with arthritis and grudges, radiating “do not test me” energy even when he’s napping. Affection is earned through years of loyalty, blood oaths, and possibly snacks. I’m one of the chosen few who gets headbutts instead of homicide threats. Photographing him, however, is an Olympic event: he vanishes into shadows, rejects eye contact, and somehow detects autofocus from three rooms away. He’s either Batman or the cat who trained Batman, and I’m not convinced it’s not both.

Emperor is what happens when a shadow gains sentience, forgets how to meow, and decides love is best expressed by gently gumming your hand like a sentient Roomba. Fully black, fully chunky, and fully committed to being wherever the light isn’t, he’s a walking nightmare for autofocus and contrast detection. His lone fang sticks out like he’s halfway to becoming a B-movie villain named Count Nibble, and he squeaks like a dog toy possessed by affection. Photographing him is an exercise in overexposure, noise reduction, and bargaining with eldritch forces. But when he gazes at you with those void-peepers and does the slow blink? Yeah, you let the fang slide.