So I have this cat, Mr. Pickles, who is equal parts adorable and diabolical. Tonight, I made myself a sandwich, turned my back for two seconds, and BAM—half of it is gone. There’s Mr. Pickles, sitting INNOCENTLY by the couch, licking his paw like he didn’t just commit a crime.
I call him out: “Did you eat my sandwich?”
This dude looks me dead in the eyes, like, “Who, me? I’m but a humble feline, sir. Surely you must be mistaken.”
I swear, he even gave a slow blink, which I’m now convinced is the cat version of gaslighting. Meanwhile, the other half of my sandwich is on the floor, clearly mauled by his tiny gremlin teeth.
Anyway, I ate it. Not because I’m proud, but because I refuse to let Mr. Pickles win.
TL;DR: My cat’s a manipulative little jerk, and I ate floor food out of spite.