The vacuum hummed like a disgruntled bee as I chased Whiskers, my feline nemesis, across the kitchen tiles. He’d stolen my sock—my favorite striped one, the one that smelled faintly of old pizza—and now he perched atop the fridge, tail flicking like a metronome set to ‘mischief’.
“Give it back, you furry outlaw,” I said, lunging. My foot hit a puddle of spilled laundry detergent, and I went airborne, landing in a heap of soggy towels. Biscuit, our dog, barked once, then sneezed into a pile of my clean underwear.
Whiskers yawned, batting the sock into the air. It spiraled toward the ceiling fan, which whirred to life as if summoned by chaos. I jumped, knocking over a lamp. The bulb shattered. Silence.
“We’re doomed,” I muttered, as Biscuit dug his nose into a discarded cereal box. Whiskers sauntered down the fridge, sock in mouth, and deposited it on my head like a trophy. I stared at the ceiling fan, now spinning wildly. “This is why we can’t have nice things,” I said.
Biscuit woofed, proudly holding a half-eaten granola bar. The vacuum sputtered. Somewhere, a neighbor screamed.
