The cat, a fur-covered tornado named Sir Whiskers, leapt from the couch with the precision of a missile. His target? A potted snake plant perched on the windowsill like a green sentinel. The collision was seismic—soil erupted like a miniature volcano, shards of ceramic clattered like glass bells, and the plant’s leaves twitched as if gasping for air.
“You little gremlin,” I hissed, knee-deep in a puddle of mulch, while Sir Whiskers sat atop the wreckage, tail flicking like a metronome of guilt. His eyes, two saucers of innocent malice, locked onto mine. I swear he smirked.
The mess was a post-apocalyptic landscape: roots dangling like spaghetti, a half-buried rubber chicken (the plant’s former companion), and a faint smell of damp earth mingling with the tang of betrayal. I crouched to salvage what remained, only for Sir Whiskers to pounce on a stray leaf, sending a cascade of dirt into my coffee mug.
“Enough,” I said, pointing a finger at him. He blinked. Twice. Then he knocked over a lamp.
By sunset, the apartment resembled a crime scene. The snake plant was reduced to a sad pile of stems, and Sir Whiskers lounged on the couch, purring like a contented warlord. I stared at the wreckage, then at him. He yawned, revealing teeth sharp enough to slice through my resolve.
Some days, I think the real plant is him.
