Mr. Whiskers, the cat, stretched atop the fridge like a sunbathing CEO, while Barkley, the dog, bounced in circles, a tennis ball clamped in his jaws. The air smelled of stale coffee and unmet potential.
“Catch!” Barkley barked, hurling the ball into the couch. Mr. Whiskers didn’t blink. The ball rolled under the TV stand.
“You’re *supposed* to chase it,” Barkley said, tail wagging a metronome. His paws tapped a rhythm only he could hear.
Mr. Whiskers yawned, a sound like a rusty gate. “I’m 17. I’ve earned the right to judge your life choices.”
“But you’re *fun*!” Barkley whined, nose nudging the cat’s haunch. “We could play hide-and-seek! Or… or…”
“Or what?” Mr. Whiskers arched a brow. “You’ll lick my fur again? Last time, I had to shampoo for a week.”
Barkley’s tail froze. He glanced at the ball, then back at the cat. “I… I just wanted to be your friend.”
“Friendship is overrated,” Mr. Whiskers said, though his tail twitched. “But if you fetch that ball, I’ll consider letting you lick my paw. Twice.”
Barkley sprang, a golden blur. The ball rolled into the hallway. By the time he returned, Mr. Whiskers was asleep, purring like a malfunctioning lawnmower. Barkley stared, then dropped the ball at the cat’s head.
“You’re welcome,” he muttered, settling beside the fridge. The TV blared static. Somewhere, a vacuum hummed. Life, apparently, was just a series of unmet expectations.”,
