It is one thing to lose a battle. It is another to be lectured about it by Schmutz.
She sits by the ancient sourdough jar, her tail wrapped neatly around her paws, exuding the smugness of a cat who has never had a single original thought. And yet, here she is, clearing her throat as if preparing to address an eager audience. I already feel my ears twitching, my whiskers vibrating with barely contained rage.
“You see, Franzi,” she begins, “you fail to grasp the grandeur of what is happening here.” Her voice drips with self-satisfaction, each syllable more insufferable than the last. “This isn’t just bread goo, dear sister. This is living history.” She pauses for effect, her gaze flicking toward Mum, who, oblivious to the theft of my reality, nods along, enchanted. “Passed down from monks, carefully nurtured through generations—do you know what monks did, Franzi? They preserved knowledge. Culture. They understood that true artistry—”
My tail fluffs against my will, first of all. I am the intellectual in this household, second of all. This is fermented flour, not the Renaissance. Third of all. Schmutz is saying words like “heritage” and “sacred tradition” while licking dried chicken crumbs off the counter.
She notices my expression—an unreadable mix of horror and disgust—but she mistakes it for intrigue. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, of course,” she continues with a yawn, stretching dramatically. “Some creatures are simply too practical. Too… limited in their vision.” She examines her claws, enjoying herself now. “In a way, Franzi, you remind me of the skeptics in history who resisted innovation. The ones who feared progress. Who could not see beyond their own limitations.”
A pause. A smug pause.
“It’s very tragic.”
The noise that escapes me is not a meow. It is a soul-wrenching, pinecone-tailed, guttural screech. A sound so pure in its indignation that Mum jumps, nearly dropping her sacred historical yeast. “Franzi, what is wrong with you?” she scolds, clutching the jar protectively as if I—I—am the unstable force in this household.
Schmutz smirks, stretching luxuriously as she hops down from the counter. “Oh, don’t mind her,” she purrs. “She’s simply resisting enlightenment.”
I stare, seething. Something dark coils in my chest. This is no longer about the dough, no longer about control.
Schmutz has found something more significant than herself to hide behind—something untouchable, something revered—cultural value.
She is standing beneath its shield, wielding its weight against me, and she knows it. She knows I cannot attack it without proving her right.
For the first time, I do not know how to strike back.
To be continued…
