The human tiptoed into the laundry room, arms outstretched like a horror movie ghost. The cat, perched on the dryer, blinked once—slow, deliberate—and knocked a sock off the counter. The human lunged. The cat leaped onto the washing machine, tail flicking like a metronome counting down to escape. ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you?’ the human hissed, crouching low. The cat yawned, paws kneading the air. A second sock sailed through the hallway, landing in a potted fern. The human chased it, only to find the cat sitting atop the fridge, chin propped on a third sock, now draped around its neck like a scarf. ‘That’s my favorite,’ the human groaned. The cat meowed, then dropped the sock onto the human’s head. It smelled like laundry detergent and victory.
