The Day It All Went Downhill

Published on 3 October 2025 at 12:30

My life was perfect. Truly. At two months old, I had it all: endless games with my lunatic sister, naps beside my boring brother, warm milk from mum, and only one recurring challenge - avoiding Karen’s colossal feet. That was my only hardship. Simple. Manageable. Life was good. But then came that day. The day when things started to go downhill...

Morning begins as usual: sunlight, pouncing, chaos. My sister launches herself at my ear, my brother stares into the void like he’s contemplating the meaning of life, and I - I perfect my heroic leap from sofa to armchair (I only fell once). Mum herds us together for breakfast, and we curl into her, warm and safe. The milk is familiar, comforting, perfect.

But then Karen appears. She shuffles in with a mysterious rattle. A bag. She opens it, and the smell that escapes is… confusing. Strange. Sharp. Not warm and soft like mum’s milk. This smell is crunchy, dusty, and frankly suspicious. Karen pours the contents into a little dish, and suddenly... betrayal.

Mittens and food

Mum nudges us forward. My sister, of course, dives right in. She’ll eat anything that doesn’t eat her first. My brother sniffs it, shrugs, and decides napping is a better option. I, however, am not so easily fooled. I sniff the so-called “food.” It doesn’t move. It doesn’t smell alive. It’s… dry. I lick it. My tongue recoils. Why would anyone eat this?
Karen kneels down, glasses slipping, and chirps: “Look, Mittens, yummy food!” Yummy? This? I glance at Mum, silently begging her to confirm this is a joke. But she calmly starts crunching away, as if this nightmare is completely normal. Et tu, Mum?


Karen peers at me, frowning. “Oh, Mittens, you don’t like it?” she mutters, as if this is a surprise. She hobbles to the cupboard, rummages around, and returns with a small tin. When she peels it open, a new smell fills the room - richer, wetter, softer. Still not Mum’s milk, but at least not gravel. She spoons it into the dish, and I cautiously taste it. Hm. Acceptable. Not delicious. Not food. Just… wet slop. I’ll tolerate it, but only under protest.

The rest of the day resumes with my usual schedule: pouncing on my sister, who believes she’s some kind of lioness, batting Karen’s yarn ball across the living room until it unravels into chaos, climbing onto the sofa only to tumble dramatically onto the floor (on purpose, of course) and carefully not being flattened under Karen’s traitorous feet.

At least, that was the plan. But I was lost in thought - about food, about life, about what might change next - and I didn’t notice Karen’s foot coming. Squish!
Right on my paw. Pain! Shock! Outrage! I leapt straight into the air and when I landed, something horrifying had happened: my fur stood up all over my body. My tail had ballooned to twice its size. I didn’t even know tails could do that. I spun in circles, eyes wide, feeling like a tiny hedgehog trapped in my own skin. My sister laughed until she rolled over. My brother didn’t even open his eyes. Typical.

Outwardly, I returned to playing soon enough. Inwardly, though, something had shifted. If food could change, and my own fur could betray me like that, what else was waiting? Would naps be outlawed? Would yarn vanish? Would the sun stop shining on my fur in the morning? The world suddenly felt… unpredictable. I gnawed at my sister’s tail half-heartedly, lost in thought. She squeaked and flailed as usual, oblivious. My brother slept, dreaming of nothing, as usual. But me? I stared out the window, tiny heart heavy with suspicion.

The age of milk had ended. The age of wet slop and of puffy tails had begun. And I, Mittens, must be ready for whatever horrors come next.