It all began with the faint, nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right, like a cold shiver down my tail.
Not the sort that comes from a drafty window or an overzealous ceiling fan. No—this was the unmistakable cold of betrayal. My blanket, my trusted nap companion, was thinner. Smaller. Diminished.
I blinked slowly at the evidence: the corner I usually wrapped around my paws was missing. Not just folded—gone.
At first, I assumed static cling. A rogue bunching. Perhaps the blanket was simply having a moody day. We all do. But the next morning, it had retreated even further. I could see carpet where blanket once reigned.
Suspicious.
There was no question. Something—or someone—was stealing my blanket, inch by inch. A slow, daring theft, right under my whiskers.
I launched an official investigation.
From atop the bookshelf, I observed the scene. No movement. No intruders. Just the faint scent of yesterday’s tuna and the distant hum of conspiracy.
I sniffed along the blanket’s edge, searching for clues. Had the dog next door slipped in again? Unlikely. He smells like peanut butter and chaos. There was no trace of either.
Then, a breakthrough.
The blanket was… pulled. Just slightly. Subtly. Toward the laundry basket. I narrowed my eyes. Of course. The humans. Always meddling. Always rearranging things that are exactly fine as they are.
When the blanket vanished entirely later that afternoon, I sprang into action. I leapt dramatically into the basket, knocking over three unmatched socks and a suspiciously damp towel. The evidence was clear. The crime had been committed.
I meowed in protest. Loudly. Repeatedly. The human responded by offering me a crunchy treat and a scratch behind the ears—typical bribe behavior.
I accepted it, obviously. But I made my displeasure known.
That evening, the blanket returned. Warmer. Fluffier. Smelling faintly of lavender and machine heat.
I stared at it suspiciously.
I kneaded it anyway.
It was… acceptable.
But let this serve as a warning: if the blanket disappears again, I’ll be forced to take drastic action.
Probably involving the sock drawer.
Oscar Underpaw,
Nap Strategist | Feline Forensic Investigator | Blanket Defender.
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