The morning started normal enough—until Sir Whiskers, my cat, decided the vacuum cleaner was a rival for attention. I’d just poured my coffee when he leapt onto the counter, tail flicking like a metronome set to panic. The mug trembled. My hand shook. And then—*splat*—coffee geysed across the floor, pooling around his paw prints like a toddler’s art project.
“You’re a menace,” I told him, wiping my shirt with a dishrag. He blinked, unrepentant, then knocked over a stack of cereal boxes. Boxes exploded. Cornflakes rained down. I stared at the wreckage, half-tempted to join the chaos. Instead, I grabbed a broom.
Sir Whiskers watched, unimpressed, as I swept up the mess. Then he pounced on the broom handle, treating it like a laser pointer’s worst nightmare. I sighed, slumping against the fridge. The day hadn’t even hit noon.
Later, I found him perched on the windowsill, staring out at the neighbor’s dog. The dog barked. Sir Whiskers hissed. Then, in a move straight out of a cartoon, he swatted a fly with such force it ricocheted off the wall. I laughed until my ribs ached. Some days, life’s just a series of tiny wars. And I’m clearly the underdog.
The coffee stain? Still there. The cereal boxes? Still scattered. But hey—at least the fly’s got a new respect for feline power.
