The dog, a golden retriever named Biscuit, stared at the couch like it was a mystery. The cat, a sullen tabby called Mr. Whiskers, sat atop the pillows, tail flicking like a metronome set to ‘mild annoyance.’ Biscuit woofed once—sharp, interrogative. Mr. Whiskers blinked, unimpressed.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” Biscuit said, pawing at the air. “I saw you stash the bacon bits in the couch cushions last Tuesday.”
Mr. Whiskers yawned, a slow, deliberate stretch that made his spine crack like a zipper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, though his tail had stopped flicking. “I’m merely… napping. And also, apparently, a criminal mastermind.”
Biscuit whined, low and conspiratorial, and began circling the couch. The fabric creaked like a ship in a storm. Mr. Whiskers watched, unblinking, as Biscuit’s nose twitched closer to the cushions. Then, suddenly, Biscuit lunged—paws flying, tail a blur—only to skid into a pile of discarded socks.
“You’re ridiculous,” Mr. Whiskers said, leaping down to survey the chaos. “I’ve seen more cunning in a bread crumb.”
Biscuit sat up, tongue lolling, and wagged his tail like a windshield wiper on high speed. “I’m not ridiculous! I’m… strategic.”
“Sure you are,” Mr. Whiskers said, padding toward the kitchen. “Just don’t blame me when your ‘strategy’ involves a face full of lint.”
Biscuit stared after him, then slowly, deliberately, grabbed a sock and chewed it into confetti. The sound was loud, proud, and deeply satisfying. Mr. Whiskers paused at the door, sighed, and muttered, “I hate this job,” before vanishing into the hallway.”
