The treadmill hummed like a disgruntled bee as Mara adjusted her neon pink sneakers, determined to outrun her Monday blues. Her cat, Sir Fluffington III, perched on the kitchen counter, tail flicking like a metronome set to ‘malignant.’
“You’re not a lion, you’re a cat,” Mara said, jabbing the start button. The machine whirred to life.
Sir Fluffington III leapt. Not at the treadmill—oh no. At the 12-inch stack of printer paper Mara had meticulously arranged for her “productivity vision board.” The papers fluttered like panicked doves, landing on the treadmill belt.
“No! My manifest destiny!” Mara lunged, but the cat had already commandeered the machine, paws churning the belt as if it were a kaleidoscope. Mara’s left sneaker slipped off.
“You little tyrant,” she hissed, yanking the power cord. The treadmill sputtered, then died. Sir Fluffington III blinked up at her, eyes wide with faux innocence.
The next morning, Mara found the cat curled inside the treadmill, purring like a lawnmower. A single piece of paper protruded from his mouth: “SUCCESS.”
Mara sighed, tossing a treat into the machine. “You win, you fuzzy dictator.”
Sir Fluffington III batted the treat into the air, reclaiming his throne.
