The dog, a golden retriever named Biscuit, bounded into the living room with a squeaky tennis ball clamped in his jaws. He halted mid-leap, tail wagging so hard it looked like it might detach, and dropped the ball at the cat’s paw. The cat, a svelte gray thing named Miso, yawned, stretched, and resumed grooming her left ear as though Biscuit were a particularly annoying dust bunny.
“Fetch!” Biscuit barked, nudging the ball with his nose. Miso flicked her tail, a slow, deliberate swat that sent the ball skittering under the couch. Biscuit whined, paws tapping the floor like a metronome set to ‘desperation.’
Ten minutes later, the ball reappeared on the kitchen counter. Biscuit stared at it, then at Miso, who sat atop the fridge, licking her paw with the dignity of a monarch. The dog’s ears drooped. He slumped into a defeated heap, head on his paws, as Miso hopped down and sauntered into the hallway.
The owner walked in, coffee in hand, and froze. “What happened here?” They gaped at the trail of shredded couch cushions and a half-eaten sock.
Biscuit lifted his head, eyes wide with innocent terror. Miso, meanwhile, perched on the bookshelf, tail twitching like a metronome set to ‘satisfaction.’
