The mug hit the floor with a ceramic *crack*, sending a splash of coffee across my recently ironed pants. Mr. Whiskers, perched on the arm of the couch like a tiny, fur-covered warlord, tail flicking like a metronome set to ‘sabotage,’ blinked at me with innocent green eyes. I leveled him with a look that could wither roses. He yawned.
“You did this,” I hissed, knee-deep in a puddle of betrayal. The coffee table, now a crime scene of overturned mugs, scattered papers, and a deflated stress ball, groaned under the weight of his tyranny. Mr. Whiskers sauntered over, paws thudding like a toddler on a trampoline, and batted a spoon into the sink. It clattered like a gong.
I grabbed a rag, scrubbing at the stain with the intensity of someone solving a mystery. Mr. Whiskers hopped onto the counter, swiping a banana from the fruit bowl. The moment of triumph was short-lived; the banana rolled off, skidded under the fridge, and vanished into the void. He stared at me, as if to say, *You didn’t*.
By noon, the table was a mosaic of chaos: a half-eaten snack, a loose sock, and a rogue highlighter. Mr. Whiskers sat atop it, purring like a lawnmower, as I surrendered, slumping into the couch. He leapt into my lap, headbutting my hand until I scratched his ears. The peace didn’t last. Five minutes later, he’d knocked over my phone charger. Again.
We’re not pets. We’re collaborators in controlled mayhem,” I muttered, as he batted a pen into the hallway. He meowed, a sound that could only mean one thing: *More chaos, please.*
