Sir Whiskers, a tabby with a fur coat of burnt toast, stood rigid in the park, tail erect like a question mark. He’d spent three weeks studying dogs—watching their wagging, their slobber, the way they chased squirrels like madmen. Finally, he barked. A high-pitched yip, more confused than threatening. A golden retriever nearby tilted its head, then erupted into laughter, sending pigeons squawking. ‘Dude,’ the dog said, nose twitching, ‘you’re a cat.’ Sir Whiskers blinked. ‘I’m a… *dachshund*,’ he hissed, tail now a limp spaghetti strand. The retriever snorted. ‘Your bark’s just a meow. Your fetch? A nap.’ Suddenly, a squirrel darted past. Sir Whiskers lunged—then froze, mid-air, as his claws unsheathed with a *snick-snick*. The crowd gasped. The squirrel blinked. ‘…Did you just…?’ Sir Whiskers, now a blurry streak of fur, replied with a series of ear-pinned, tail-fluffed yowls that sounded suspiciously like ‘I DIDN’T DO IT!’
