You’d think betrayal would come with thunder and drama. Instead, it arrived softly — in the form of breakfast
Ben shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and cracked open a tin of what humans optimistically call “cat food.” I stared into my bowl, a puddle of questionable grey slop and sighed. “Ah, yes. The chef’s special again,” I thought. “Wet disappointment with a hint of despair.”
My brother didn’t share my standards. He inhaled his serving like he was auditioning for a food commercial. My sister joined him, tails wagging, blissfully unaware of the tragedy before them. I, meanwhile, was still dreaming of roast chicken - warm, fragrant, dignified food.
Then, without warning, Ben did something unexpected. He scooped up my brother and placed him in the box.
The box with holes. The one that rattles. The one no sane creature enters willingly.
The one he tried to contain me and my siblings in before.
We watched in horror as Ben carried him to the door.
The door opened. The door closed.
He was gone.
My sister and I exchanged a look of pure panic. “He took him,” she seemed to say. “Why? Where? What if he never comes back?”
He took our brother. Just scooped him up and vanished through the big door like it was nothing. Unacceptable. In this family, if one kitten is taken, the others must launch a rescue. It’s the law, possibly of nature, definitely of siblinghood. Even if the kidnapped sibling happens to be a lazy potato who contributes nothing but snoring and occasional drool, rescue is still mandatory.
We tore into action.
The nearest window! We leapt onto the sill, claws scrabbling for grip, and peered out just in time to see Ben carrying our brother to the box and entering the roaring best with four wheels. It coughed, roared, and rolled away with him inside.
My sister cried, pawing wildly at the glass. She tried to charge straight through the window - as any sensible cat would when attempting a heroic rescue but bounced off the invisible wall with a thunk.
I gave it a cautious tap. Cold. Solid. Witchcraft. Why make something see-through if you can’t walk through it? Weird humans…
We bolted to the next window. Same story.
We carried on with our search for a way out, the sofa - still a sofa. No escape hatch. Front door? Shut tight. Back door? Also useless. We circled the house twice, checking every possible escape route, but the human world had clearly been designed by villains who hate adventure.
Desperation set in. We dashed from room to room, meowing, pawing at every possible exit like furry detectives.
And just when we’d given up hope… the door opened again.
Ben was back. And with him our brother.
He looked… fine. Calm, even. Maybe a little dazed, like he’d seen things, but alive. My sister rushed to sniff him over. No missing fur. No visible trauma. Maybe he’d gone somewhere luxurious? A secret snack vault, perhaps?
I didn’t have long to ponder. Because then… betrayal, round two.
Ben picked up my sister and popped her into the carrier.
“What?!” I yowled. “You’re taking her too? Who’s next? Me?!”
Ben left again. I paced the hallway like a general awaiting bad news. My brother, ever helpful, decided to curl up on the sofa and take a nap. “Unbelievable,” I muttered. “He gets abducted, and his survival plan is napping.”
Eventually, the door opened again. My sister returned, slightly ruffled but smug. “Wasn’t so bad,” her eyes said. “Got to meet new humans. They touched my paws.”
I froze. They what?
Then Ben turned toward me. His smile looked far too innocent. “Your turn, Mittens.”
Absolutely not.
I bolted. Across the kitchen, under the table, behind the curtain - anywhere but the box. Ben chased me through the house like some ridiculous sitcom. But alas, humans are persistent. He cornered me, scooped me up, and in I went.
Trapped. Betrayed. Contained.
Ben carried me to the front door, opened it with that infuriating calm humans use when committing crimes, and stepped outside. The door shut behind us with a dramatic click - the sound of doom.
And there it was: the beast on four wheels. The noisy, shaky metal monster that smells like old air and regret. “Oh, fantastic,” I thought. “Because what every cat dreams of is another ride in that contraption.”
I let out sounds I didn’t even know I could make - part growl, part opera. “You’ll regret this, Ben!” I howled. “I have claws and no shame!”
After a while we stopped. Ben carried me into a strange building that smelled like fear and cleaning products. Then into a smaller room, where another human waited.
The stranger smiled which is always a bad sign. “Let’s have a look at you, handsome boy.”
Finally, I thought, someone sees me for who I truly am - a sophisticated intellectual, a cat of culture, a being far too important for wet food and meaningless human babble.
But the illusion didn’t last.
She picked me up like a sack of potatoes and the next thing I knew, she was poking my belly like it owed her money, prying open my mouth to inspect my teeth, and - the ultimate insult - lifting my tail.
“Excuse me,” I wanted to say, “is there a personal space policy in this establishment?”
The stranger chuckled, which only deepened the insult.
Finally, the stranger handed me back to Ben. “All done,” she said cheerfully.
“All done?” I thought. “You’ve just violated my personal space and now you think we’re done?”
Back in the carrier, I glared at Ben the entire drive home. He hummed along to music like nothing had happened. Monsters rarely feel guilt.
When we finally got home, my siblings ran to greet me. I strutted out of the carrier, tail high. “I survived,” I declared. “They tried to probe me, but I live to tell the tale.”
Then I turned to Ben, narrowing my eyes. “This isn’t over,” I thought. “Not by a long shot.”