Whiskers, my cat, sat atop the living room couch like a sultan surveying his realm. The air smelled of stale tuna and regret. Across the room, my dog, Buddy, performed a vigorous dance of joy, tail wagging so hard it might have started a wildfire.
“Stop that,” I thought, though my lips didn’t move.
Buddy had discovered a rogue pillow earlier that morning, and now he treated it like a sacred relic. He’d carried it around, nuzzled it, and at one point attempted to bury it in the potted plant. The pillow had since been reduced to a lumpy, half-eaten thing, but Buddy still circled it like a devoted worshipper.
I watched as he lunged, teeth clamping down on the pillow’s frayed edge. It made a sound like a dying balloon. The pillow exploded, sending feathers cascading through the air like a poorly executed snowstorm.
“Oh no,” I muttered, already mentally drafting a Yelp review for the couch.
Buddy sat back, proudly holding a tuft of feather in his mouth, as if he’d just defeated a dragon. Whiskers, meanwhile, had leapt from the couch and now perched on the bookshelf, tail flicking with the satisfaction of a mastermind.
The door swung open. My roommate, Jess, stepped in, holding a grocery bag. “What happened here?” she asked, eyeing the feather-covered furniture.
“Buddy’s new hobby,” I said, pointing at the dog, who was now attempting to stuff the remaining pillow pieces into his mouth.
Jess stared. “Is that… a pillow?”
“Yes,” I said. “And also a crime scene.”
Whiskers yawned, stretching lazily as if to say, “I am not involved.”
Buddy, meanwhile, had managed to swallow a feather. He choked, then coughed it up with the dignity of a man who’d just survived a plane crash.
Jess burst out laughing. “This is the best thing I’ve seen all week.”
I sighed, already imagining the vet bill. But as I glanced at Whiskers, who now had a feather stuck to his paw and looked like a disgruntled wizard, I couldn’t help but smile.
Some days, the only victory is surviving the chaos—and maybe stealing a feather or two.
