The apartment reeked of burnt toast and unspoken regrets. Milo, the cat, lay sprawled across the keyboard like a fur-covered monarch, while Biscuit, the dog, paced in front of the door, tail thumping a frantic rhythm. ‘Walk,’ Biscuit barked, though it came out more as a enthusiastic squeak. Milo blinked one amber eye. ‘No,’ he replied, though it was really just a hiss-shaped sigh.
Biscuit lunged for the leash, tangling himself in a pile of dirty laundry. The hamster in the corner stopped running. Milo, sensing opportunity, slinked toward the kitchen counter, where a bowl of cereal waited, its milk a pale imitation of adventure. Biscuit, now free from the laundry vortex, lunged again—this time knocking over the cereal box. Milk sprayed like a broken fountain as flakes pirouetted through the air.
The owner entered, coffee in hand, and froze. ‘What in the name of…?’ The room held its breath. Milo perched on the fridge, tail flicking. Biscuit wagged his tail so hard he created a mini whirlwind. The hamster, now riding a cereal flake, waved a tiny fist.
Later, the owner would swear they heard a conspiracy of sighs as they mopped up the mess. But in that moment, amidst the milk and chaos, there was a weird, messy harmony—like life itself, but with more existential dread and fewer pants.
