I watched from the shadows.
Tail twitching. Heart steady. Vengeance proofed and ready.
The enemy sat on its glassy throne, bloated with stolen affection. Bubbling quietly. Mocking me.
It fermented as if it belonged here.
As if it had won.
I was done with subtlety.
Done with theatrics.
This called for something final.
I moved like a ghost.
Across the countertop. Past the ignored toys and empty bowl. Toward the warm, swollen traitor resting in its sacred bowl.
Its surface rose and fell—alive, unaware.
Drunk on love it did not earn.
I crouched. Apex. Precision incarnate.
A crime so vile, so irreversible, it would end the sourdough’s reign once and for all.
And I did it.
Relief was instant. Justice—served warm.
I leaped back to my perch just as Mum entered.
A pause.
Then—
“OH MY GOD.”
Felix thundered in. The bowl was lifted. Examined. There was sniffing. There was discussion. There was panic.
And then, like a knife through my whiskers—
“Schmutz,” Mum groaned. “SCHMUTZ!”
From the windowsill, Schmutz blinked slowly. “Huh?”
Felix sighed. “Come on, Schmutz. Again?”
I sat still. Serene. A sculpture of feline innocence.
Tail wrapped neatly around my paws.
Judging.
Schmutz turned to me. Her eyes narrowed, betrayal blooming.
“It wasn’t—” she began.
But the humans had moved on. Mum dumped the defiled dough into the trash with a grunt of disappointment.
“Ugh. I have to start over.”
I straightened. Wait. What?
Felix patted her shoulder. “No worries. We’ll make another one.”
Another.
I stared in mute horror.
They didn’t even care.
My masterpiece—my sacrifice—discarded like a smudged canvas. And the dough? It would rise again. There was always another jar. Another culture. Another ghost waiting in the fridge.
I had failed.
That night, as I licked my paw with the hollow rhythm of a war hero denied their parade, I felt it: a gaze. Heavy. Unrelenting.
I looked up.
Schmutz was still watching me.
Unblinking.
From the windowsill.
“You owe me,” she whispered.
I flicked my tail—casualties of war.
But as I curled into myself—seeking the dreamless quiet of oblivion—a single thought rose like steam:
I had won this battle.
Hadn’t I?
To be continued…
