The mug hit the floor with a diplomatic *clank*, sending a brown tsunami across the kitchen tiles. I’d been trying to brew coffee while my cat, Sir Whiskers, practiced his espionage techniques—pawing at the counter, tail flicking like a metronome of mischief.
“You’re a menace,” I muttered, knee-deep in a puddle of regret. The mug had been my favorite: a dented relic from a roadside diner, printed with “I Survived 2012.” Now it was shattered, and Sir Whiskers stood atop the chaos, fur dusted with coffee grounds, as if he’d just won the World Cup.
He meowed, a sound that could only mean one thing: *I am innocent. Also, feed me.*
I scooped up shards with a napkin, wondering why my life had become a sitcom where I was both the straight man and the punchline. The cat leapt onto the counter, knocking over a tower of cereal boxes. Boxes. Of. Cheerios.
“You’re a *monster*,” I said, though I’d already started laughing. He batted a yellow hexagon toward me, then purred like he’d just solved the Riemann Hypothesis.
By noon, the kitchen looked like a war zone. But Sir Whiskers? He was napping on the couch, a half-eaten sock in his mouth, blissfully unaware that he’d single-handedly destroyed my morning.
Some days, I think he’s plotting something bigger. Like world domination. Or at least my entire pantry.
