It was a quiet night. Too quiet. The humans were asleep. Spurka was drooling on the pillow. Kitka was twitching in her sleep, probably chasing cheese again.
I was on patrol, naturally. Someone has to keep the perimeter safe from invisible threats like that suspicious shoelace and the ghost that sometimes lives behind the curtain.
And then… it happened.
The Moth.
A winged menace. A fluttering phantom. A flying crinkly sock with no sense of boundaries. It dive-bombed the lamp like it was reenacting Top Gun: Insect Edition.
I froze. Narrowed my eyes. My whiskers twitched.
This was no ordinary bug. This was a challenge.
“TO BATTLE!” I screamed (silently, with my eyes).
I launched from the windowsill with the grace of a ballerina and the violence of a flying toaster. Spurka woke up mid-air as I soared over her. Kitka fell off the bed in sheer panic. The humans sat up just in time to see me body-slam the curtain.
The moth?
Gone.
Vanished.
Ascended to the afterlife or hiding behind the bookshelf.
I sat proudly in the middle of the room, tail flicking, fur fluffed, heart racing like a samba drum.
The humans sighed. Kitka whined. Spurka hissed at a dust bunny.
But the night was safe. Thanks to me.
You’re welcome.
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