The cat, Miso, stared at the ceiling tile like it owed her money. The dog, a golden retriever named Biscuit, had been circling the living room for ten minutes, nose twitching at the scent of a squirrel that didn’t exist. Miso’s tail flicked once—slow, deliberate—as Biscuit erupted into a full-blown sprint, knocking over a lamp and sending a cascade of shredded paper into the air like confetti.
“What are you doing?” Miso asked, though she already knew. Biscuit was now nose-deep in the couch cushions, emitting a series of enthusiastic snorts. The smell of damp earth and panic filled the room. Miso hopped down from the counter, padding over to the mess. “You’re not a squirrel,” she said, eyeing the shredded paper. “You’re a dog.”
Biscuit paused, tail wagging like a windshield wiper on high speed. He trotted to the front door, pawing at it with the urgency of a man who’d just discovered coffee. Miso followed, her steps silent, until they reached the threshold. Outside, a squirrel darted up a tree. Biscuit barked once—sharp, decisive—and then proceeded to pee on the exact same spot where the squirrel had stood.
The owner walked in, sniffing the air. “Who did that?” they asked, nostrils flaring. Miso blinked innocently. Biscuit wagged his tail like a metronome. The squirrel, meanwhile, watched from the treetop, unimpressed.
