The morning sun slanted through the blinds as Sir Barksalot, a Chihuahua with a penchant for drama, launched himself at a tennis ball. The ball ricocheted off the couch, skidded under the dining table, and came to rest beside Whiskers, a Maine Coon cat sipping coffee from a saucer. ‘It’s not a toy,’ Whiskers said, tail flicking. ‘It’s a tactical objective.’ Sir Barksalot yapped, paws kneading the air. ‘You’re missing the plot!’ The ball rolled toward the hallway. Whiskers sighed, leapt onto the bookshelf, and knocked over a lamp. ‘I’m not your co-star,’ she said, as the lamp crashed. Sir Barksalot froze, then lunged, snatching the ball mid-air. He pranced back, tail wagging like a windshield wiper. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. Whiskers stared, unimpressed. ‘Next time, try subtlety.’ The doorbell rang. Sir Barksalot barked. ‘That’s the delivery guy!’ Whiskers blinked. ‘You’ve never met him.’ ‘Exactly!’ The dog dashed, leaving a trail of paw prints and existential dread. Whiskers sipped coffee, watching the chaos. ‘Some stories just write themselves,’ she muttered.
