The rain tapped the window like a toddler with a hammer. Milo, the golden retriever, had found the magic squeaky ball—again. It was buried under three pillows, a half-eaten sock, and a lifetime supply of existential dread. He yapped until the ceiling fan wobbled.
Luna, the cat, stared at him from the back of the couch. Her tail flicked like a metronome set to ‘irritated.’ She had not asked for this. She had not asked for 9 a.m. mandatory pep talks or the scent of wet fur on her favorite cushion.
Milo dropped the ball at her paws. It squeaked. Luna swatted it. It bounced into the hallway.
“I’m not your fetch toy,” she said, though her voice was more of a rumbly sigh. Milo barked anyway. He had a talent for ignoring nuance.
The ball rolled under the fridge. Milo followed, tail wagging so hard it made a breeze. Luna watched, unimpressed, as he emerged with a crumpled receipt and a look of triumph. She blinked. This was why she kept the blinds closed.
Later, when the rain stopped, Milo napped on the rug. Luna curled into his shadow, her purr a low hum. The squeaky ball sat forgotten in the hallway, its mission accomplished. They were a team, after all—just not the kind with matching socks.
