The cat, a furball of existential dread named Mr. Whiskers, launched himself at my coffee mug with the precision of a missile. I’d just brewed a fresh pot—dark roast, no sugar, the kind that tastes like liquid ambition—when he knocked it sideways. Coffee splattered across the floor like a modern art exhibit. I stared at the mess, then at him. He stared back, pupils dilated with innocent malice.
“Not again,” I groaned, grabbing a sponge. He leaped onto the counter, tail flicking like a metronome set to 11. I chased him through the kitchen, sopping up rogue drips as he zigzagged between appliances. He’d taken down a cereal box last week. A lamp the week before. This was war.
He vaulted onto the fridge, perched like a king on his throne. I held up the sponge like a peace offering. “You’re gonna pay for this, buddy.” He meowed, a sound so pure it could’ve been a hymn. Then he knocked over my salt shaker. A perfect cone of salt spiraled to the floor.
I froze. He stared down at his handiwork, then at me, as if to say, “What?” I dropped the sponge. “You’re banned from the kitchen.” He sauntered off, tail high, leaving a trail of coffee and salt like a tiny, furry dictator. I glanced at the clock. 8:03 a.m. The day had only just begun.
