This morning, a tragedy struck. Mom dropped a biscuit.
Naturally, we inspected it. Spurka, claimed first rights. She sniffed, licked, then gagged so loudly it echoed. She rolled onto her side, eyes wide, tongue hanging out, like she’d tasted the apocalypse. “Disgust!” she croaked, as if poisoned by carbohydrates.
Kitka, our calico chaos engine, ignored the drama. She batted the soggy lump across the kitchen, declaring it “the biscuit puck.” She skated, flipped, nearly took down the chair. “Olympics!” she shouted, diving under the fridge.
And me? I am Gryzka, voice of reason, philosopher of fluff. I sat on the counter, observing with my usual sarcastic tone.
“Marvelous,” I said. “One stale human snack, and civilization collapses. Truly, we are a proud species.”
Spurka continued dying theatrically on the floor. Kitka reappeared with crumbs glued to her whiskers, claiming victory. Mom returned, saw the chaos, and sighed. “It was just a biscuit!”
“Just?” I scoffed. “This is history. This is legend. This is… beneath the fridge forever.”
And so it remains: one biscuit, lost to time.
One cat poisoned, one cat triumphant, and one cat—me—eternally superior.
Until dinner, when another “harmless snack” shall fall, and destiny repeats itself with glorious crumbs and catastrophic meows.
No comments:
Post a Comment