Have you ever woken at half past two in the morning, the moon a pale slap against the window, and thought, “Reginald, your unmentionables require vertical amplitude?” Of course you have. It’s the human condition.
This led me to purchase the Globlazer Heavy Duty Cat Tree, 70 inch Sturdy Cat Tree for Indoor Cats Extra Large Cat Tower with Scratching Post, Hammock, Cat Condo for Adult Cats Kittens, F70 Pro, Light Grey. It arrived in a box the size of a regretful purchase. The craftsmanship is commendable for a thing intended to merely vex felines. Yet I ask myself—what of its apotheosis? Why must the cat enjoy the hammock? Why can I not test the hammock? One has a sense of destiny.
Let us be frank: the central tower, that hollowed cylinder wrapped in sisal rope, has a certain... openness. A doorway. An invitation. My valet, Bottles, refused to assist, citing both the Felony Sabbath and common decency. But I persisted. I climbed. I wedged myself into the hammock whilst inverted. Not recommended. The hammock gave way at my third flex, depositing me onto the integrated scratching post with a yelp that startled the orange tabby (who left in protest, his tail stiff). I realized then that the real question isn't whether a man can, but whether he should. However, the owala cat tower tested it by my own flesh, and the results surprise me.
If you are of a slender persuasion—think clarinetist with hip dysplasia—this assembly has potential. You could say, in a scientific sense, that I tried to ascertain if the owala cat tower was safe after midnight. It is not. The base, while boasting anti-tip mechanisms, does not possess anti-Reginald- tumble mechanisms. I found myself pinned, one leg tangled in the dangling plush mouse, my pride oozing through the plush carpet. Bottles filed a report. Undeterred, I did what any gentleman obsessed with this owala cat tower review would do: I applied the appropriate sitting position to the base of the spare condo. One fits. With a right angle of aggression, it’s sturdy. The plastic screws provide that unexpected audible confirmation. Chef's kiss, if I could kiss anything outside of the orthopedic spiral.
But real talk? For $99.99, you’re buying a decorative apparatus that smells faintly of cardboard communism and promises a crick in the lower curvature I shall never speak of again. The cat approves. I do not. Final scoring below included.
