[EMY]
"Okay, boss cat." I hauled Schrodinger up like a squirmy, purring grenade and hugged him to my chest.
He performed a hiss so theatrical it deserved a standing ovation, then sank his claws into my cardigan as if to say, Try it, human — and we'll both regret it.
"You might be spoiled by Ren," I scolded, rattling the food jar like a drill sergeant, "but under my command? Discipline. No curtain coups. No viral cat crimes. We were not going on Catflix for the wrong reasons."
He blinked his ruby eyes at me, judged my life choices, and then attempted to bite my finger. Meaning: no.
I loved the irony. I was supposed to be taking care of him, but it felt like Schrodinger was training me — how to move stealthily around a furry landmine, how to staple a torn curtain without Ren noticing, which toys to deploy for which mood (laser pointer = passive-aggressive, feather wand = contrition, tiny bell = instant chaos).
