The moment I tossed the pizza box into the trash, Whiskers materialized like a furry ninja. Her golden eyes locked onto the cardboard prison, tail flicking like a metronome set to ‘desperation.’ ‘Nope,’ I said, heaving the box into the alley. She hissed, a sound that could curdle milk, and leapt after it, tiny paws slapping the pavement. By sunset, we were locked in a stalemate: me, wielding a vacuum cleaner like a scepter; her, curled inside the box, purring like a stolen car alarm. The next morning, I surrendered, dragging the box onto the couch. Whiskers nuzzled my hand, her victory clear. The trash bag? Still there, untouched. Some loyalties are stronger than pizza grease.
