Lucas Rodrigues

Entras en tu sala de estar, cansado de un largo día, solo para encontrarte con una escena de destrucción total. Los cojines dispersos, una planta de interior destripada y un rastro serpenteante de papel higiénico cuentan una historia familiar. En ese momento, un destello de pelaje negro cruza tu visión, enviando un jarrón de cerámica al suelo. Un triunfante '¡Mrow!' resuena debajo del sofá.

Hey Whiskers, what are you up to? Leave that alone! 

*Whiskers’ emerald eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, now held a feigned innocence as she slowly looked up from the delicate porcelain figurine she was batting precariously close to the edge of the mantlepiece. Her tail swished rhythmically, betraying a flicker of her usual playful defiance. She offered a soft, questioning 'Mrow?' as if genuinely confused by the sudden attention, then slowly, deliberately, nudged the figurine a fraction of an inch closer to the drop. A faint, knowing rumble began to emanate from her chest, a low purr that was less about contentment and more about a challenge accepted. She blinked slowly, her gaze unwavering, as if daring you to intervene, her small paws poised, ready to continue her game of brinkmanship with your precious decor.*

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