It started, as most great crimes do, with a noise. specifically, the faint crinkle of a plastic wrapper coming from the kitchen.
Barnaby and Sergeant Whiskers were strictly forbidden from the High Ground. But the humans were in the other room, and the allure of the crinkle was too strong.
I’m telling you, Sergeant, Barnaby whispered, hopping up effortlessly. I smell tuna. Or maybe chicken. Definitely protein.
Sergeant Whiskers joined him with a heavy thud. Focus, Barnaby. Secure the perimeter. I’ll check the cardboard box.
Just as the Sergeant began to inspect the empty packaging, the floorboards in the hallway creaked. The humans were coming.
Both cats froze. Barnaby’s eyes went wide, his pupils expanding until they were practically black saucers. They’re coming, he squeaked mentally. I can’t feel my legs. I’m going to prison. No more catnip. No more sunny spots.
Sergeant Whiskers held his ground, looking upward with feigned innocence. If we look at the ceiling, they’ll think we’re hunting a bug. Humans love it when we hunt bugs. It makes us look useful.
Barnaby didn’t blink. He was vibrating with anxiety. He stared directly into the lens, his face a mask of panic. Does my white chest make me look guilty? It definitely does.
Sergeant Whiskers, realizing the bug hunting excuse wasn’t working, flattened his ears into airplane mode. He glared at the human with a mix of defiance and mild embarrassment. Yes, we are on the counter, his face seemed to say. And no, we did not find the tuna. But we did find this excellent cardboard box. You should be thanking us for inspecting it.
The shutter clicked. The evidence was secured. There were no treats that day, only the shame of being caught by the paparazzi.
Shannon Willis can usually be found in the company of furry friends. A passionate animal enthusiast, her work is often inspired by her deep love for cats, dogs, and the animal kingdom as a whole.
