Whiskers, a cat with a flair for drama, stared at the fridge, tail twitching. “It’s been whispering to me,” he hissed to Biscuit, a dog who was more interested in napping. “You’re just hearing things,” Biscuit replied, yawning. But Whiskers was sure. He leaped onto the fridge, knocking over a milk carton. Milk splashed everywhere. Biscuit blinked. “Okay, maybe it’s haunted,” he said, eyeing the dripping carton. Whiskers nodded, ears back. “The whispers grow louder,” he whispered. Biscuit sniffed the air. “Or you’re just bad at math.” The fridge hummed ominously. Whiskers hissed. “Silence, mortal!” Biscuit tilted his head. “You’re a cat. You don’t get to be a detective.” The fridge made a loud *clunk*. Whiskers froze. “Did you hear that?” Biscuit shrugged. “Yeah. That was me. I kicked it.” Whiskers stared. “You… kicked the fridge?” Biscuit nodded. “Tried to nap on it. Now it’s mad.” The fridge let out a final, mournful *whirr*. Whiskers sighed. “I give up. It’s probably just the compressor.” Biscuit patted his head. “There, there. Let’s go find a couch.” They padded off, leaving the fridge to hum in peace.
