The Bureau of Acceptable Care
By the year 2042, humanity had arrived at a simple conclusion: people could not be trusted to care.
Not for each other. Not for their animals. Love was too imprecise, too riddled with human error.
And so, the Bureau of Acceptable Care (BAC) was born.
Care became a science. No longer an instinct, no longer a kindness freely given, but a system of measurable, enforceable behaviors. The inefficiency of sentiment was removed. Only precision remained.
Pet ownership was no longer a right. It was a privilege, contingent on compliance. Every household with an animal was assigned a Tracker, a silent observer ensuring adherence to the 95% Correctness Threshold—the minimum score required to remain a qualified caretaker.
- Meal Timing Deviation: Feeding your pet more than seven minutes late? Compliance Warning issued.
- Hydration Deficiency: Water bowl filled slightly below optimal levels? Mandatory Correctional Seminar invitation.
- Emotional Enrichment Deficit: Play sessions falling below the Bureau’s scientifically approved guidelines? Formal Assessment scheduled.
First came the warnings.
Second came the interventions.
Fail to correct your behavior, and the pet was removed and reassigned to a State-Certified Sanctuary. The Bureau assured the public that these facilities were utopian, brimming with scientifically optimized diets and gleaming play structures. No one had ever seen inside.
No one had ever returned.
And if a household continued to fail? If a person proved fundamentally unfit for care?
The Bureau took them instead.
No one asked what happened to non-compliant owners. No one asked why their apartments remained undisturbed, save for the faint imprint of where a pet bed had once been. A leash still swinging gently from its hook, like the ghost of a failed commitment.
Most learned quickly. Most adapted. Most complied.
But some refused.
Underground networks emerged, sheltering imperfect pet owners in hidden enclaves where people still believed love was more than precision. Where devotion was unmeasurable and unoptimized.
Among them was Elise. Her crime? Feeding her cat wet food instead of the state-mandated raw diet. Her cat, Viktor, an Oriental Shorthair with a perpetual smirk, had never been healthier.
However, the system did not recognize health—only adherence.
When the Compliance Officers arrived, clipboard in hand, Elise was already gone. Viktor curled in her arms as she vanished into the shadows.
Her fate was uncertain. Some say she reached the rumored Sanctuary in the mountains, where pet care was an act of love, not fear. Others believed she was caught, her record erased, her story another whisper in a world marching steadily toward perfection.
And the Bureau continued its work.
Doors were knocked upon. Compliance scores were measured.
Water bowls were filled precisely on time.
And somewhere, another pet owner stared at their Tracker, watching their percentage drop.
Knowing exactly what came next.
