Franzi wakes to the sound of the door crashing open. Not the gentle creak of a household settling, not the hesitant knock of a package delivery, but a full-blown break-in—the kind that suggests either a high-stakes police raid or an overly dramatic intervention staged for television.
“Feline Welfare Authority! Step away from the cats!”
Anny screams. Schmutz, ever the performer, immediately collapses into a melodramatic faint. Franzi, tail fluffed to an unfortunate pinecone, watches as uniformed officers flood the living room, brandishing clipboards—the most fearsome bureaucratic weapon of all.
“Miss Anny,” a stern woman in a navy suit announces, adjusting her glasses. “We have received multiple reports of improper feline care.” She flips through an official-looking folder. “Exhibit A: food with traces of sugar.”
Gasps ripple through the officers. Someone faints in the background.
Anny clutches her head. “I—I didn’t know—”
“Feeding sugar to a cat is a gateway offense,” the woman continues grimly. “Next, Exhibit B: insufficient brain stimulation. Your cats have not completed their government-mandated four daily enrichment exercises. One of them was seen looking bored for several minutes.”
“I WAS THINKING,” Franzi hisses, but no one listens.
Schmutz, sensing opportunity, lets out a weak, tragic meow. “We suffer, officer.”
The inspectors exchange grim nods. “We have no choice. Take them.”
Chaos erupts. Franzi and Schmutz are dragged into government-issued brain-training chambers, forced to navigate puzzle feeders under the scrutiny of a stopwatch-wielding scientist. The Playtime Enforcers demand that Anny engages in precisely timed teaser toy sessions under fluorescent interrogation-room lighting. A concerned neighbor reports Franzi looking existential for too long. A wellness check ensues.
The Food Police confiscate everything. “This,” an officer sneers, holding up a bag of kibble, “contains pea protein. Do you even love your cats?”
Anny, now curled into a ball of existential despair, whimpers, “I thought I did.”
Then, as if things couldn’t get worse, the Mandatory Leash Walk Enforcers arrive. “Indoor cats must experience the outdoors—on their terms,” an officer intones. Franzi is strapped into a harness and paraded through a sensory overload nightmare of barking dogs, screeching bicycles, and judgmental pigeons.
As the horror unfolds, Franzi realizes the truth. This is no random nightmare. This is the world built from Anny’s worst fears—a bureaucratic hellscape where every anxious thought has become law.
She must escape. She must wake up.
Franzi closes her eyes, focuses, and wills herself out of this madness—
—and wakes up to find Anny staring at her phone at 2 AM, whispering, “I should be playing with them more… what if they’re bored?”
Franzi groans, flops onto her side, and lets out a single, exasperated meow. Some nightmares never end.
