I know before anyone else.
The knowledge arrives in a quiet moment, a lazy internet search while Mum hums in the kitchen, lovingly feeding her sacred dough. The words are there, stark and straightforward: Sourdough is toxic for cats—the fermentation, the yeast, the alcohol byproducts—all dangerous.
I stare at the screen, my tail flicking once, slow and deliberate. I do not react. I do not meow. I let the information settle, seeping into my bones like a quiet truth I was meant to discover.
Across the room, Schmutz purrs next to the Ancient Dough Relic, basking in its supposed cultural significance. Her eyes are half-lidded with unbearable self-satisfaction.
Mum strokes her head. “See, Franzi? You could learn something from Schmutz. She appreciates art.”
I blink. I know something they don’t.
And I wait.
I watch as Mum pours her devotion into the dough as Schmutz leans further into her role as Keeper of the Yeast. I let them build their empire. I let Schmutz push deeper into her smug, academic authority. I let Mum’s obsession grow unchecked. Because I know the fall is coming.
And when it does, I will not have to lift a paw.
All I have to do is wait for the inevitable mistake. And when it happens—
I will be there.
To be continued…
