A Tail in the Wrong Place

The kitchen was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the faint squeak of the human’s rolling stool. He sat there like some overgrown detective in a dime-store paperback, only instead of solving crimes, he was hunting for snacks. I got careless. My tail stretched out across the floor like a lazy streetcar rail. Then bam! The wheel of that stool kissed my tail and I howled like a saxophone in a midnight alley.

He swore it was an accident. Said he didn’t see me there. I believe him — but tell that to my tail.

The Tripwire Routine

Accident number two came during dinner service. My dinner. The human shuffles across the kitchen with my bowl in his hand, and I’m right there at his feet. He keeps warning me, “You’re gonna trip me, kid. You don’t need a 300-pound man falling on you.” I say, how’s that my fault? I’m not the one clomping around like a one-man parade. If anybody needs to watch where they’re going, it’s him.

Still, I keep doing it. What can I say? A cat’s gotta eat, and a detective’s gotta follow the clues — even if the clue is just a bowl of kibble.

The Human’s Defense

The lug pleads his case: bad knees, clumsy feet, and a stool that rolls like a getaway car with no brakes. He swears he’s not out to hurt me. I look at him and, for a second, I almost buy it. He’s not the villain here. Just a black cat detective stuck on domestic detail, watching a human trip over his own case file.

Case Closed… For Now

So I let him off the hook this time. The case is closed, no hard feelings. But make no mistake — if he rolls over my tail again, the claws come out faster than a switchblade in a back alley.

—Luna 🐾