The Impatient Cat

A plastic water cup hits the floor at 6:02 AM. Barnaby the cat will not be ignored.

The universe, according to Barnaby, operated on a strict and unyielding schedule. Breakfast was to be served at precisely six in the morning. Not six-o-five. Not even six-o-one.

Naturally, when the digital clock on the nightstand shifted to 6:02 AM and the human in the bed remained a stationary, breathing lump beneath the duvet, Barnaby realized he had to take drastic measures. The threat of starvation was imminent.

He began with Phase One: The Stare. Sitting directly on Clara’s chest, he planted his white-gloved paws over her sternum and drilled his green eyes into her closed eyelids. He broadcasted his hunger via intense mental telepathy. Clara merely snored, a soft, whistling sound that Barnaby found deeply insulting.

Phase Two required physical intervention. He leaned forward and extended a single, rough tongue-sandpaper pass across her nose.

Clara groaned, pulling the blanket over her face. "Barnaby, go away. It’s Sunday."

Sunday changes nothing, Barnaby thought. He bypassed Phase Three—the gentle kneading—and moved straight to Phase Four: The Gravity Experiment. He marched over to the nightstand, locked eyes with Clara's sleeping form, and extended one front paw toward her plastic water cup.

He tapped it. It slid an inch.

Clara didn't move.

He tapped it again. It reached the precipice.

"Barnaby, don't you dare," Clara mumbled from beneath the blanket.

It was too late for warnings. With a flick of his wrist, the cup plunged to the hardwood floor with a spectacular, echoing clack.

Clara bolted upright, wide awake. "Barnaby!"

Barnaby, already sitting perfectly straight by his empty ceramic dish in the hallway, let out a pristine, innocent mew. His human was finally on her feet, the kitchen cabinet was opening, and balance had been restored to the cosmos. He would allow her to live. Until dinner time, at least.

Word count: 300