The dog, a golden retriever named Buster, wagged his tail so hard he knocked over a lamp. The cat, a sleek gray thing named Mr. Whiskers, blinked slowly from the windowsill. ‘You’re gonna break something,’ Buster yapped, tail still twitching. Mr. Whiskers stretched, bones creaking like a rusty swing set. ‘I’m not the one who thinks naptime is a competitive sport,’ he replied. Buster zoomed into the living room, dragging a squeaky frog. Mr. Whiskers watched, unimpressed, as the dog leapt onto the couch, frog in mouth. The cat hopped down, padding over to sniff the frog. ‘It’s not a toy,’ Buster barked, wrestling the frog into a corner. Mr. Whiskers swatted it once. The frog squeaked. Buster froze. ‘You just violated the rules,’ he said, ears drooping. Mr. Whiskers arched his back, tail flicking like a metronome. ‘The only rule is nap time,’ he purred. Buster stared. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he flopped onto the floor, paws in the air. Mr. Whiskers climbed onto his back, purring like a lawnmower. The frog sat forgotten in the corner, squeaking softly as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the chaos.
