The Great Wicker Cat Caper, A Three Act Tragedy

It started, as most kitten misadventures do, with a simple inspection.

Barnaby, the orange tabby with a spirit much larger than his paws, had found the Holy Grail of living room artifacts, The Wicker Orb. It was dangling just within reach, swaying slightly, whispering promises of adventure. With a mighty leap and a scramble of claws, Barnaby hoisted himself inside.

For a few glorious minutes, he was the King of the Wicker Castle. He poked his nose through the gaps, chewed thoughtfully on the structural supports, and batted at the invisible dust motes floating in the sunlight. It was a perfect fit. A fortress of solitude.

But solitude is a rare luxury when you have a brother like Pip.

Pip, a grey tabby with a severe case of FOMO, had been watching from the floor. Seeing Barnaby’s tail twitching with delight was too much to bear. Pip didn’t ask for permission; he simply launched himself upward.

Suddenly, the Wicker Castle was at maximum capacity.

You’re squishing my whiskers, Barnaby seemed to protest, his orange face pressed against the wooden bars. Move over, Pip’s expression said, as he wedged his fluffy hindquarters into the last available inch of space.

For a moment, they sat there a two headed, eight legged fur monster trapped in a decorative lamp. They peered out at the world through the bars, looking like two innocent prisoners plotting a heist. The basket groaned under their combined weight. The sway became a swing.

Then, physics took over.

Barnaby, deciding that the overcrowding was unacceptable, tried to climb toward the ceiling. Pip, trying to anchor himself, dug his claws in. The lamp swung violently to the left. Barnaby lost his footing, his orange body turning upside down, paws flailing for a grip that wasn’t there.

The fortress tipped. The kings were dethroned. And with a soft thump and a scatter of limbs, the Wicker Cat Caper came to an abrupt, tumbling end on the table below.