The cat, a furball of existential dread, eyed the vacuum cleaner like it was a cursed relic. Its whiskers twitched as the machine hummed, a low growl that made the curtains vibrate. The cat leapt onto the couch, tail flicking like a metronome set to panic. The vacuum whirred closer, its hose snaking toward the cat’s favorite napping spot. In a single bound, the cat lunged for the cord, jaws snapping at the plastic. The vacuum sputtered, then lurched sideways, dragging the cat into a pile of socks. The cat yowled, a sound like a kazoo being tortured by a toddler, as the vacuum chased it in circles, suction cupping a poster of a beach. By dawn, the cat was trapped inside a cereal box, staring at the vacuum’s blinking eye. The machine paused, then emitted a soft “BEEP.” The cat blinked. The box lid creaked open. They stared at each other. The vacuum whirred again. The cat sprinted. The vacuum followed. Always, the vacuum followed.
