The moment Dave dragged his dusty vacuum into the living room, Whiskers materialized like a fur-clad ninja. The cat’s eyes dilated into twin black holes as he pounced on the appliance, tail twitching like a metronome set to ‘obsessive.’ ‘Nope,’ Dave muttered, lunging for the cord. Too late. Whiskers had already wedged his head into the vacuum’s hose, purring like a 1970s car engine. Dave yanked the cord free. Whiskers emerged, face smeared with dust and existential confusion. The vacuum blinked its red eye. Dave stared at the cat. The cat stared at the vacuum. Then, in a move straight out of a anime climax, Whiskers leapt onto the machine, paws pressing the ‘auto-clean’ button. The vacuum whirred to life, sucking up a throw pillow. Dave’s face fell. Whiskers? Now riding the vacuum like a mechanical horse, tail high as a victory flag. The pillow flapped wildly in the suction. Dave opened his mouth. Nothing came out. The vacuum hummed. Whiskers meowed. The pillow surrendered.
