The dog, a golden retriever named Biscuit, erupted into a frenzy of barks at 3 a.m., his tail a metronome of existential dread. The cat, Miso, blinked slowly from the windowsill, her pupils contracting like tiny black coins. Biscuit lunged at a phantom squirrel, knocking over a lamp that clattered like a cowbell in a jazz band. Miso yawned, a sound like a rusty hinge, and leapt onto the fridge, where she proceeded to bat a half-eaten taco into the trash. Biscuit, now convinced the taco was a secret message, dug it up and presented it to Miso like a diplomat offering a peace treaty. She stared at it, then swatted it into the dishwasher. The dishwasher, offended, emitted a sound like a disgruntled teakettle. Biscuit sat down, tail still wagging, as Miso curled into a comma of fur on the counter, both of them waiting for the humans to wake up and fix everything. They didn’t. Instead, the humans slept through the chaos, their snores a duet of exhaustion. By dawn, Biscuit had redistributed the taco crumbs into a nest under the couch, and Miso had claimed the dishwasher as her personal throne. The house felt like a circus that forgot to pack up after the elephants left.
