Mara stacked 100 skeins of yarn in her living room, muttering, ‘This is *art*,’ as her cat, Sir Fluffington III, stared at her like she’d invaded his throne. She draped a neon-pink strand over a cardboard box, then froze. The yarn had vanished.
A flick of fur. A hiss. Mara turned to find Sir Fluffington III mid-leap, yarn snarl in his teeth, sprinting like a furry tornado through the apartment. ‘No! My installation!’ she screamed, chasing him into the kitchen where he scaled the curtains, yarn dangling like a tail.
The yarn unraveled as he pranced, creating a spaghetti-like mess across the ceiling. Mara lunged, netting him in a throw pillow. ‘You’re a menace,’ she hissed, untangling the yarn as he batted at a loose end. The resulting tangle looked… intentional. A chaotic spiral of color, dripping from the ceiling like a modernist sculpture.
She paused. ‘Maybe this *is* art.’ Sir Fluffington III sneezed, knocking over a vase. Mara grinned. ‘Perfect,’ she said, snapping photos. ‘Title: *The Cat Who Would Be King*.’
