Afternoon Turmoil
Miss Turner has vanished.
That’s never a good sign.
I stand perfectly still (which, to be fair, is my default) and wait. The sun has disappeared behind the dark clouds.
Water starts falling from the sky and begins making pattering sounds against my window…creating even more suspense.
It begins, as these things often do, with silence.
Too much silence.
The kind of silence that makes even a houseplant suspicious.
Then— thud. Scrabble. Thud-thud-thud.
A furry blur launches beside me. It’s Miss Turner, eyes wide, pupils like full moons.
She’s clearly possessed by whatever strange afternoon rain spirit makes cats sprint at invisible ghosts.
I can’t believe my eyes (figure of speech, of course).
She sniffs my pot, then my leaves, then bats at one.
The audacity.
The leaf sways. I channel all my chlorophyll into dignity.
She mistakes this for a game.
A paw. A second bat. A chew attempt.
If I had vocal cords, I’d scream. Instead, I radiate pure, silent outrage.
Just then, a voice from the other room:
“ABSOLUTELY NOT! Miss Tuna Turner!”
Miss Turner freezes. We lock eyes.
For one electric moment, I see fear, the brief understanding that she is not the apex predator here.
Then she scampers away, vanishing into the hallway, tail high, pretending it was all part of her plan.
The room is still again.
One of my leaves has a new wrinkle.
A battle scar.
I lift it proudly.
Survived another encounter.
Thrived, even.