The morning begins the same way it always does, with my sister turning into a hurricane. She’s bouncing off the furniture, ambushing shadows, and attempting parkour stunts that would make even the most reckless squirrel shake its head in pity. I, of course, remain dignified. Or at least I try to, while she ricochets off my side for the third time before breakfast.
But then… something changes.
Karen appears with a strange device in her hand. She points it at the floor, presses a button, and suddenly... it’s there. The strangest, most infuriating thing I’ve ever seen. A tiny glowing red dot.
My sister spots it instantly. She launches herself like a missile, paws flailing, eyes wild. She lands, the dot is gone, she spins, the dot is back. She scrambles after it in a frenzy of claws and squeaks, absolutely convinced that this time she will succeed. Spoiler: she doesn’t. She crashes into a chair leg instead.
I roll my eyes. “Pathetic,” I mutter. But secretly… I’m intrigued.
And then, in a twist nobody saw coming, my brother - the eternal rock, the slumbering mountain - actually stirs. He blinks, stretches, and to everyone’s shock, locks eyes on the dot. The room goes silent. Even my sister pauses mid-maniacal lunge. Could it be? Could he, the laziest creature alive, actually care about something?
He crouches, wiggles his back end, and with all the grace of a falling potato, he leaps. Straight behind the sofa. There’s a muffled thud, a scrabble of claws, and then his tail vanishes into the shadows.
Silence.
Then he re-emerges, sauntering out with his best “I meant to do that” face. Dust bunnies cling to his fur like trophies. I am impressed. Not with his hunting skills (he has none) but with his ability to pretend disaster was intentional. A true art form.
And then mum enters the scene. Calm, elegant, utterly unbothered by the chaos. She glances at the dot, as though considering whether it’s worth her time. With a sigh, she moves. Slow, deliberate pawsteps. Tail low. Whiskers forward. A wiggle, a leap... pounce!
She doesn’t flail. She doesn’t crash. She doesn’t even break a sweat. For one glorious second, it looks like she’s actually caught the dot.
I gape. My sister squeals in delight. My brother… blinks once and returns to his nap.
And here’s the thing... I feel… inspired. Watching mum stalk and leap with such calm precision makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, I could learn a thing or two.
So I try.
My first leap sends me sprawling face-first into the rug. My sister laughs so hard she nearly swallows a dust mote. My brother yawns dramatically. Karen tries not to giggle.
But I’m not done. Oh no. I try again. This time I almost land on it, almost. My paws slam down with all the force of a kitten earthquake, and though the dot escapes, I feel… closer. Stronger. Deadlier.
Attempt three. Better. Attempt four. Even better. Each pounce feels more precise, more dangerous, more… me. The laughter fades. My sister stops mocking me and starts watching. Even my brother cracks open both eyes.
And then, the moment arrives. The dot skitters across the floor. I launch myself, body stretched, claws poised, ears back. I land perfectly.
The dot vanishes.
I stand tall, chest puffed, tail high. “Yes,” I declare, “it is my destiny, I am the red dot slayer.”
My siblings gape. Mum gives me a small approving nod, which in cat language is basically a standing ovation. Karen squeals something about me being “such a clever boy.” But I barely hear them. My mind is already racing ahead to greater things. If I can conquer the dot, what’s next? The jingling toy mouse? The shadows on the wall? Perhaps… the very birds outside the window?
I am no longer just Mittens. I am Mittens the Mighty Hunter. The dot may have escaped, but in my heart, I know: today was the beginning of greatness.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to nap for four hours to recover from my two minutes of activity.