The cat knocked over the coffee can at 7:03 a.m., unleashing a cascade of beans that scattered like shrapnel across the kitchen tile. I stood there, half-dressed, staring at the carnage as the feline sat atop the counter, tail flicking like a metronome set to ‘mischief.’ ‘You did NOT just do that,’ I said, pointing a finger at her. She blinked, then batted a rogue bean into the sink. The sound of it hitting water was a taunt. I grabbed a rag, scrubbing the floor while she prowled the counters, knocking over a salt shaker and a jar of pickles. ‘This isn’t a game,’ I hissed, but she’d already launched herself at the trash can, sending a plastic bag spiraling into the hallway. By 8:15 a.m., the apartment smelled like burnt coffee and regret. She curled up on my laptop, purring like a lawnmower, as I stared at the empty coffee can, now a shrine to chaos. The beans? Gone. The dignity? Also gone.’,
