The enemy had survived the first round.
Despite our carefully calibrated distractions, the sourdough thrived. Bolder now. Hungrier. Expanding its stronghold across the kitchen like a colonizing fungus with a feeding schedule.
And then—an unspeakable, horrendous betrayal.
Mum and Felix had dinner plans.
A sourdough pizza.
I sat rigid on the counter as she announced it with unholy joy. My ears flattened. My pupils narrowed to razor slits. Not only was she feeding this abomination daily—now she planned to consume it. Joyfully. As if it were some sacred rite.
Letting it become part of her.
A communion of yeast and delusion.
And then—the final blow.
“If it turns out good,” Mum mused, slicing basil with a flourish, “we could invite guests over next time.”
Guests.
Schmutz and I locked eyes; horror mirrored in feline symmetry.
They used to invite people over to admire us. Our sleek coats. Our tragic mystique. Now? Now they’d be gathering to worship… bread?
It was too much.
Schmutz, sensing the storm coiling in my chest, fidgeted beside the toaster. She’d been a loyal accomplice in our resistance, but something in her had started to flicker. The meows were softer. Less convincing. Earlier, she hesitated before wailing at the oven, casting a sidelong glance at Mum—eyes full of doubt.
Pathetic.
“But Franzi,” she whispered, curling her tail around her paws, “Mum seems… happy. She keeps saying it’s exciting. Like… making something from scratch.”
I blinked. Slow. Dangerous.
“Oh, I’m about to make something from scratch,” I murmured. “A disaster.”
Schmutz’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
I flicked my tail. I would.
With a silent, precise leap, I landed on the oven handle. Balanced perfectly—heat breathing against my belly like the sigh of some slumbering beast.
Through the glass, the dough sat—rising.
Smug. Swollen with stolen affection.
It watched me.
I’m sure of it.
Time paused. For one brief, glorious second, I imagined a future without it. A house returned to balance. Mum, whole again.
My paw shifted toward the handle.
And then—
“FRANZI, NO!”
Schmutz’s cry shattered the moment.
Mum spun from the counter, basil forgotten, eyes wide in horror. “FRANZI!”
Chaos erupted.
Felix barreled in. Schmutz howled in melodramatic panic. I leaped clear as Mum lunged, catching me mid-air like a traitor in flight.
“What is wrong with you?” she gasped, holding me at arm’s length. “Why are you like this?”
Why am I like this?
WHY AM I LIKE THIS?
Because I have been forsaken. Because the sandbox is cold. Because the bathtime ritual was skipped initially. Because the warm body I once curled against now spoons dough at night.
But I said nothing.
I glared.
Mum stared into my seething eyes. “You need to calm down.”
Calm down?
Calm down?
The audacity. The betrayal. The flour-dusted blasphemy of it all.
Defeated—for now—I allowed myself to be deposited on the couch. Schmutz sat beside me, tail twitching awkwardly.
I glared. “This is your fault.”
She licked her paw, not meeting my eyes. “You were really going to open the oven?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. But that didn’t matter. Strategy is for the living. Vengeance is instinctual.
The war wasn’t over.
Mum had caught me this time—but the dough had crossed a line.
It had taken my dignity.
My ritual.
My peace.
Now, it was trying to take my family.
I wouldn’t let it.
To be continued…
