Whiskers, a tabby with the focus of a warlord, locked onto a turkey sandwich perched on the kitchen counter. She launched herself skyward, claws extended, only to slam into a vase of daisies. The vase teetered, then toppled—daisies and ceramic shards scattering like confetti. Undeterred, Whiskers scaled the fridge, using a rubber chicken as a stepstool. She pounced. The sandwich danced just beyond her reach, suspended on a string tied to the ceiling fan. The fan whirred, spinning the sandwich in a dizzying circle. Whiskers climbed the curtain rod, tail flicking like a metronome, and lunged. The sandwich dropped—into the dog’s open mouth. The dog, snoozing in a sunbeam, blinked, swallowed, then yawned. “Thanks,” it said, voice gravelly as a gravel pit. Whiskers stared, her tail now entangled in the curtain rod. The sandwich? A greasy memory. The dog licked its chops. “Next time, bring wine,” it muttered, closing its eyes. Whiskers hissed at the ceiling fan, which continued spinning, indifferent.
