Morning began, as all great disasters do, with curiosity.
We gathered at the base of the staircase - our Mount Everest, the ultimate mystery. My brother crouched low, eyes locked on the first step like a soldier about to storm enemy lines. My sister twitched her tail, ready for glory. And me? I supervised, naturally.
The stairs were taller than we remembered. Slick, treacherous, and designed, I’m convinced, by humans purely to mock small paws. My brother leapt first. He made it to step two before gravity reminded him who was boss. My sister tried next, with impressive enthusiasm, zero results. She slid back down in a heap, hissing at the banister as if it had personally betrayed her.
But she was determined. She circled, crouched, and tried again. And again. And again. Each time with the same result - an undignified plop back onto the floor. On her fourth attempt, she even tried hissing at the stairs first, as if intimidation might help.
I watched from below, tail flicking in mild amusement. “Truly inspiring,” I thought. “If falling down stairs were a competitive sport, she’d be a champion.”
After several noble (and slightly undignified) attempts, we collapsed in defeat. That’s when it hit us… the smell.
Something divine.
Something forbidden.
Something… chicken.
The scent wafted from the kitchen like a siren’s call. One whiff and we were no longer explorers of the staircase. We were kitten commandos. The stairs could wait. The mission was clear.
Operation Snackstorm had begun.
We crept forward… low, silent, eyes wide. My brother took point, tail quivering with adrenaline. My sister flanked left, hugging the wall. I followed in the shadows, the brains of the operation. We reached the kitchen threshold and froze.
There it was: a plate on the counter, glistening in golden glory. A roast chicken, unsupervised. Vulnerable. Ours.
The problem? It was on the counter. And the counter was tall.
“Distraction maneuver,” I whispered. (They didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded impressive.)
My brother darted toward the empty food bowls and started pawing at them like a maniac. Ben turned. Perfect. My sister leapt onto a chair, then the table. I watched, amazed and slightly horrified, as she attempted to bridge the gap between table and counter in one heroic, overconfident leap.
But gravity, once again, intervened. She fell backward into a bowl of fruit, sending apples rolling like bowling balls. Ben gasped. My brother panicked and ran directly into the bin. And me? I was caught in the crossfire, an innocent bystander as an orange skidded across the floor and hit me square in the face.
“Excellent,” I thought, blinking through citrus-scented humiliation. “Truly a flawless operation. Remind me to nominate my sister for next year’s ‘Disaster of the Decade’ awards.”
I recovered with dignity (mostly). The chicken was now safe, guarded by an angry Ben and a chair tipped on its side. The mission was over. The dream, gone.
Or so we thought.
We retreated under the table, tails drooping, plotting our next move. My brother, ever the committed soldier, decided that this was clearly a strategic time for a nap. He stretched, yawned, and flopped over. “Traitor,” I muttered. My sister and I exchanged a look, the kind shared by true warriors on the brink of greatness.
Then came the sound that changed everything: Ben’s phone rang.
He sighed, muttered something about “just a minute,” and walked out of the kitchen mid-conversation - leaving the roast unattended.
The silly, foolish human.
Honestly, what did he think would happen? Leaving a golden, glistening roast in plain sight of three professional food enthusiasts? It was basically an invitation. He might as well have put up a sign that said “Help yourselves, kittens - dinner is served.”
It was time to try the counter again — Operation Snackstorm: Phase Two. As Sergeant Mittens, I was, of course, leading this elite unit. Failure was not an option (though, given our track record, it was statistically probable).
Attempt one… failure.
Attempt two… nearly success, followed by an undignified slide.
Attempt three… glorious victory!
We scrambled onto the counter like conquering heroes, hearts pounding, whiskers quivering. The scent was overwhelming. The chicken loomed before us, golden and perfect. Without hesitation, we bit into it - tearing, chewing, growling softly in triumph.
And oh, the taste. Perfection. Pure, seasoned magnificence. It was tender, rich, glorious. I nearly wept. My sister made a noise somewhere between a purr and a war cry.
Compared to this divine creation, the wet slop Ben usually served us was a national disgrace. Honestly, someone should report him.
Each bite confirmed what I’d always suspected: we were meant for better things. Roast chicken should be our daily meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and perhaps a light second dinner for recovery purposes.
The flavour of victory was intoxicating… buttery, juicy, and just the right amount of guilt-inducing. My sister and I devoured like two royal conquerors reclaiming what was rightfully ours. Somewhere in the background, I could hear the faint voice of reason whispering, You’re in trouble, but honestly, I was too busy chewing glory.
And then… the gasp.
That sharp, horrified “What are you doing?!” shattered the bliss like thunder over paradise. Time froze. My sister froze. I froze mid-bite, mid-bliss, mid-glory. Slowly, ever so slowly, I turned my gravy-smeared face toward Ben. His eyes were wide. His mouth hung open. He looked as though he’d just caught two burglars stealing his life savings.
Relax, human, it’s just chicken. Our chicken.
Judging by Ben's facial expression the feast was over.
My sister and I locked eyes.
There was only one option.
Extraction mode.
Together, we grabbed what remained of the roast and attempted the greatest heist in kitten history - a synchronized leap from the counter to freedom.
It was… not graceful.
We collided midair, the chicken slipped from our grasp, and the two of us rolled across the floor in a flurry of fur and despair. When the chaos settled, I found myself lying on my back, eyes blinking at the ceiling… with the entire roast chicken resting on my chest.
Gravy dripped down my whiskers. My sister had already bolted from the scene, leaving me to face the consequences alone.
Ben stood over me, jaw slack, muttering something about “tiny terrorists.”
I just stared back, regal as ever beneath my poultry crown.
Operation Snackstorm, I decided, was a partial success.