I sit on the edge of the bed, tail flicking like a metronome tuned to maximum alert. My tiny paws knead the soft blanket beneath me—no, it's not just fluff. It's the perfect stage. Yes, stage. The humans are asleep… well, mostly. Mama Alpha twitches in her sleep, silver hair fanning across the pillow like some chaotic halo, while Papa Omega snores softly, chest rising and falling with alarming regularity.
But I. I have a mission. A sacred, oh-so-important mission. To reenact the chaos of Andrew's birthday. To show the world, or at least the miniature universe of stuffed toys on this bed, how disaster and adorableness intertwine.
Step one: cast the players.
I drag the tiny bear across the blanket. It's soft, fluffy, and perfectly grumpy-looking. Perfect for Papa Omega. I give it a stern poke. "You," I squeak, "grumpy, cute, slightly honey-scented. That's you. Behave, or there will be consequences." Tail flick, ears perked.
