Ten years ago, someone named Mike gave out my cell phone number as his own.
I assume this was an accident. The alternative is that Mike deliberately outsourced his entire social life to me, and I hate to give him credit for that level of delegation.
At least once a day, someone called or texted looking for Mike. As the weeks passed, I moved through the full emotional stages of wrong-number-ism.
First, anger. If one more person contacts me looking for Mike, I am going to slap the next Mike I meet. This was unfair to the larger Mike community, but grief is rarely logical.
Then, suspicion. What is Mike up to? Is this some kind of scam? Am I an accessory? I had children to raise. I did not have time to be questioned by federal authorities. I was already being questioned extensively about what was for dinner.
Then, curiosity. These people seemed perfectly normal. Friendly, even. Maybe I should ask a few questions. What was Mike like? Did he know everyone was looking for him? Should I be looking for Mike?
Finally, acceptance. Our lives are forever intertwined, Mike. Go in peace. Apparently, I’ll be taking your calls from here on out.
And once I accepted my situation, I realized I had been overlooking an enormous opportunity.
I went online, saved a few carefully selected photos to my phone, and waited.
Mike, whose social life was thriving in his absence, did not make me wait long.
“Hey Mike, what’s up?”
I replied with a photograph of one meerkat standing on its hind legs, staring directly into the camera.
No explanation. No “wrong number.” Just a small, upright mammal that appeared to be waiting for them to reconsider their life choices.
There was no response.
Two days later, someone else tried.
“Mike, give me a call.”
I sent the meerkat.
“???”
I sent a picture of TWO meerkats.
And just like that, I had a hobby.
The rules were simple: Every incoming text earned a photograph containing one additional meerkat. You text. I meerkat. You express confusion. I increase meerkat staffing.
Finding the pictures was remarkably easy. Search “three meerkats,” and the internet delivers. Search “four meerkats,” and there they are, standing shoulder to shoulder like a K-pop boy band.
Finally, a productive use for the internet.
The only question was how far someone would let me take this.
A few days later, a contender emerged.
“Aye.”
One meerkat.
“Wrong number.”
Two meerkats.
“Ok then.”
Three meerkats.
“I don’t know if I should laugh or keep texting back.”
Four meerkats.
“Lmao.”
FIVE MEERKATS.
By this point, I had to sit down. I was laughing so hard I could barely operate my phone. Somewhere, a stranger was voluntarily participating in a wildlife census, and neither of us had planned this for our afternoon.
Was it the highlight of my week? Yes. Possibly my month. I would love to tell you I had more exciting things going on, but the evidence suggests otherwise.
Meerkat-ing was officially born.
For the past decade, I’ve deployed meerkats in response to everything from innocent wrong numbers to scammers informing me that the IRS is about to have me arrested.
Oh no. That sounds serious. Please direct all further questions to this meerkat.
Still threatening me?
I see. Let me bring in his supervisor.
Friends joined in. Several years ago, my friend Brian reached TWELVE meerkats in a single exchange and contacted me to share the news, correctly assuming I would appreciate this incredible accomplishment.
Twelve! An entire jury of meerkats.
I don’t know what else Brian accomplished that year, but I hope his family led with this in their Christmas letter.
I’ve experimented with other animals, including pictures of baby pygmy hippos becoming increasingly aggressive with their handlers. Adorable? Absolutely. But they lacked the meerkat’s particular gift for looking directly into your soul.
You cannot improve on that kind of presence.
Which brings us to our current situation of being completely overrun by political texts.
Yesterday, I received ten.
TEN.
Apparently, a remarkable number of people urgently need me to know that their opponent is evil incarnate and, even worse, has a tax proposal.
Every message has the emotional intensity of someone trapped beneath a refrigerator. STACEY, THIS IS CRITICAL. WE NEED YOU. THE DEADLINE IS MIDNIGHT.
There is always a deadline at midnight. I’m beginning to suspect the entire political system is run by college students who forgot they had a paper due.
I hate these texts with a passion I usually reserve for catching my pants pocket on a drawer handle or bumping that exact spot on my elbow that briefly allows me to hear colors.
My phone buzzes, and I think it might be one of my children. A friend. My Amazon package arriving.
But no. It’s another stranger explaining that civilization will collapse unless their candidate wins the election.
Usually, I would recommend restraint. Simply Delete. Or, if you are feeling spicy, Delete and Report Spam. The digital equivalent of shutting the door a little harder than necessary.
But today, I would like to introduce a third option. An independent candidate, if you will.
Meerkat them.
Start gently. One meerkat. We are reasonable people, and there is no need to open with the entire committee.
“Can we count on your support?”
One meerkat, standing at attention, withholding an endorsement.
“Stacey, did you see our last message?”
Two meerkats. Yes. We have reviewed it together.
“We’re following up because this is important.”
Three meerkats. Your concerns have been escalated.
“What can we can say to get your vote?”
Four meerkats. We have formed an exploratory committee.
Of course, you may be performing an elaborate wildlife comedy routine for a bot. That’s fine. I’ve also told excellent jokes to teenagers who continued looking into the refrigerator. I am accustomed to working without audience support.
I’m not suggesting meerkats will heal our national divisions. They have no economic platform. Their foreign policy is mostly looking around. I have no idea where they stand on infrastructure, although I assume they support tunnels.
But there is something deeply satisfying about taking a tiny annoyance that arrived uninvited and getting a laugh out of it. The text wanted my money, my attention, and a spike in my blood pressure. Instead, I’m sitting on my couch giggling over five suspicious mammals.
For once, I feel adequately represented.
When you’re finished, block the number and go about your day. The meerkats have other constituents to attend to.
And if you manage to beat Brian’s record of a clean dozen, please let me know. I want details. I want screenshots. I want to give this achievement the recognition it deserves.
Meerkats 2026.
They stand for something. We’re just not sure what.
