Maggie, a tabby with the patience of a traffic jam, stretched atop the fridge, basking in the sunbeam that slithered across the kitchen floor. Her tail flicked like a metronome set to ‘irritated’ as Buddy, a golden retriever with the enthusiasm of a caffeinated toddler, lunged at a phantom squirrel shaped like a lint ball.
“Stop that,” Maggie hissed, paw mid-air. Buddy froze, ears perked, then erupted into a bark-fueled sprint toward the living room, where a couch cushion lay abandoned. Maggie sighed, leaping down to investigate the chaos. The cushion was gone, replaced by a trail of drool leading to the backyard door.
Outside, Buddy stood triumphantly atop a garden gnome, tail wagging like a windshield wiper in a storm. Maggie stared, unimpressed. “You’re a 40-pound fluff ball with a death wish,” she said, though her purr betrayed her. Buddy barked, nuzzling her leg as if to say, “We’re a team!”
They traipsed into the yard, where a real squirrel chattered from a oak branch. Buddy charged, paws slapping mud, while Maggie sauntered, tail high, as if this were a yoga class. The squirrel darted. Buddy yelped, tripping over his own tail. Maggie blinked. “You’re terrible at this,” she said, though she’d already plotted the squirrel’s demise in her head.
By sunset, they’d failed. The squirrel lived. Buddy napped in a puddle of his own drool. Maggie curled on the porch, watching the sky bleed into purple. Life was absurd. But then, so were they.
