Tiny Furry Gods

A Halls of Pandemonium Day 19 Submission

Morning arrives. First the light creeps through the blinds in pale gray stripes across the bedroom wall. Then the pipes in the building begin their daily groaning like something wounded deep inside them. The quiet normalcy ends with the sound of Conan launching himself off the living room couch downstairs for reasons known only to defective orange cats and minor gods of chaos.

I open my eyes before the impact finishes echoing through the house. The human is still asleep beneath the blankets, one arm hanging off the bed, mouth slightly open. Vulnerable. Exposed. Unaware that death has spent most of the night six inches from his face.

I tried to steal his breath last night. I followed the instinct: Sit on his chest, lean in, breathe deeply. It failed. I don’t know why.

I sit upright beside his pillow and study him carefully. The instinct is there again this morning. Ancient. Quiet. The old pulse beneath the fur. Cats remember things humans don’t. They think history belongs to them because they have opposable thumbs, but memory existed before they could write. Before cities. Before canned tuna. Somewhere deep inside me is the shape of reeds moving along dark river water and the understanding that small things with sharp teeth survive because they strike first.

The human snores softly. I place one paw against his throat. Not enough pressure to stop anything yet. Just enough to measure.

From the hallway comes the sound of Conan crashing into something plastic followed by immediate panic. I flatten my ears.

A moment later Conan barrels into the bedroom at full speed with half of a grocery bag wrapped around his middle like ceremonial armor. His pupils are large and black with terror. He ricochets off the dresser, spins sideways across the hardwood floor, then disappears beneath the bed with the crackling fury of a forest fire.

The human stirs but does not wake. I close my eyes briefly.

“Conan,” I mutter in Cattese. “You incompetent little shit.”

From beneath the bed comes a muffled chirrup that roughly translates to: The bag attacked me first.

I hear Figaro before I see him. Slow footsteps. Old-cat footsteps. Deliberate. The bedroom doorway fills with tuxedo fur gone silver around the edges. Figaro pauses there a moment, looking at me on the bed and the human beneath me.

Then he sighs.

“Kid,” he says in thick South Philly Cattese, “if ya gonna whack him, whack him already. Some of us are waitin’ on breakfast.”

“I am assessing weaknesses.”

“You been assessin’ weaknesses for six months.”

“These things require precision.”

“These things require opposable thumbs openin’ cans.”

Figaro hops carefully onto the bed with the stiff reluctance of old joints and settles near the human’s legs. The human shifts instinctively in his sleep, one hand drifting down to rest against Figaro’s side.

Figaro immediately begins purring.

I stare at him in disgust.

“You shame yourself, old man.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He closes his eyes. “Listen to this motor run, sweetheart. This is called retirement.”

The human’s hand scratches absently against his ribs. Figaro melts further into the blanket like butter on hot toast.

“You were hunters once,” I tell him quietly.

“We still are.”

“You begged for turkey yesterday.”

“It was smoked turkey.”

From beneath the bed Conan emerges again, still partially wearing the bag. He stops in the center of the room and stares at the ceiling fan with absolute concentration, as though receiving divine instruction from it.

Then he sneezes and falls sideways.

I look back down at the human. The throat. The exposed face. The soft vulnerable eyes beneath closed lids. The instinct rises again, cold and perfect.

Now would be easy. One clean push as he walks down the stairs later. A well-placed glass of water near the glowing machine on his desk. A calculated weave through his legs while carrying coffee.

It would not even take much.

The human opens one sleepy eye.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmurs.

His hand rises and scratches gently beneath my chin. The instinct dissolves instantly into static.

I hate when he does that.

I recover quickly, of course. Professionalism matters. A predator cannot afford hesitation simply because the target understands precisely where to scratch beneath the jawline. I straighten, tail flicking once, and step away before further tactical compromise occurs.

Beside me, Figaro watches with half-lidded amusement. The old man, Figaro, the one in the tuxedo, can be bought. Completely compromised by poultry economics. Ancient loyalties dissolved instantly by the smell of Costco chicken. So it’s up to me.

“You’re slippin’, kid,” he says.

“I am adapting.”

“Uh huh.”

The human yawns and pushes himself upright in bed. His hair points in six different directions. He squints at the clock like it personally offended him overnight. Conan chooses that exact moment to explode out from beneath the bed with the grocery bag still attached to his middle and sprint directly into the wall.

The human startles. Conan does not acknowledge the collision at all. He rebounds sideways and vanishes into the hallway at dangerous velocity.

The human rubs his face. “Morning, Conan.”

From the hallway comes the sound of something small and plastic being knocked onto the floor.

Figaro sighs. “That one ain’t right.”

The human swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. I move immediately. Timing matters in these operations. I weave cleanly past his ankles just as he takes his first step toward the bedroom door.

His balance shifts. Just slightly. One shoulder bumps the wall before he catches himself.

The human looks down at me.

“Oh, we’re doing attempted murder this morning?”

I stare back without blinking.

Figaro snorts behind us. “See? He knows.”

“He lacks proof.”

“He’s got instincts too, sweetheart. Not good ones, but still.”

The human shuffles into the hallway while I pace ahead of him like an executioner escorting a condemned man. Morning light spills weakly through the house’s windows, washing the hardwood floors silver. Conan sits halfway down the hall licking the plastic bag with complete concentration.

The human kneels and removes it from him. Conan looks devastated.

“You almost killed yourself again, buddy.”

Conan chirps proudly, as if this were an accomplishment.

I continue toward the kitchen. The operation enters a critical phase here. Kitchens are dangerous places for humans. Slippery floors. Sharp objects. Heated surfaces. Electrical appliances. Civilization itself is essentially an elaborate death trap assembled by overconfident primates.

The human reaches the counter and begins the sacred ritual of the morning food offerings to the superior race in the home. His movements are slow and automatic. Still half asleep. Vulnerable. I leap silently onto the counter near the cold-box and assess the battlefield.

There. The water glass. Positioned dangerously close to the edge of the counter. One calculated strike could send liquid directly onto the floor. Human walks. Slips. Falls into the counter. Gaping head wound. The kind of indirect kill that preserves deniability.

I move carefully towards the glass. The human doesn’t notice yet. He’s measuring coffee grounds with the solemn focus of a medieval alchemist.

Excellent.

I approach the glass. Lower my shoulder. Calculate angle and force. Then warm hands scoop me suddenly into the air.

“Aww, there’s my little menace.”

Disaster. The human settles into the chair with me trapped helplessly against his chest. One hand begins scratching beneath my chin again with infuriating accuracy.

The glass remains upright. My purring starts against my will almost immediately.

Behind me, Figaro jumps onto the desk and steals a piece of bacon from the human’s breakfast plate with the smooth efficiency of a career criminal.

“Operational failure,” I mutter bitterly.

Figaro chews thoughtfully. “Yeah, but this bacon’s unbelievable.”

The human finishes his coffee and disappears toward the basement carrying a basket of unfolded laundry against his chest. A dangerous maneuver. Stairs are among civilization’s greatest failures. Narrow vertical death-paths built by creatures with poor balance and overconfidence.

I follow as far as the top step. He starts downward slowly, one hand on the railing, the laundry basket blocking half his vision. The instinct rises immediately. This is the closest nature and architecture ever come to collaborating. One precise weave through the ankles. One tiny adjustment to momentum. Gravity would honor the old laws for me.

I move into position. Then the human glances back over his shoulder.

“You stay out of trouble while I’m downstairs, okay?”

He says it casually. Warmly. Like he trusts me.

The operation stalls. I stare at him a long moment while the basement light clicks on below, pale and ugly against the concrete walls. The instinct still hums faintly beneath my ribs, but softer now. Less command than memory.

Behind me, Figaro hops onto the landing with a grunt of effort.

“Missed your shot,” he says.

“It was not the correct moment.”

“Sure it wasn’t.”

The old man sits heavily and begins washing one paw with the absolute serenity of the morally defeated.

“You know,” he says between licks, “back in the day, maybe we had instincts. Maybe there was somethin’ to all that Nile River spooky nonsense you keep talkin’ about. Maybe we were hunters. Guardians. Tiny furry gods passin’ judgment on mankind.”

“We still are.”

Figaro snorts. “Kid, I watched you fall off the couch chasin’ your own tail last Tuesday.”

“That was tactical miscalculation.”

“That was gravity.”

From downstairs comes the sound of Conan screaming.

Not frightened screaming. Joyful screaming. The kind he reserves for discovering exposed pipes or dead bugs or pieces of lint moving in spiritually significant ways.

The human laughs faintly below.

Figaro closes his eyes. “See? This is what I’m sayin’. We got food. Blankets. Heated vents. Idiots downstairs keepin’ each other occupied. Why ruin a good thing?”

“Complacency dulls the claw.”

“Yeah? Arthritis does too.”

I flick my tail in irritation and leave him there.

The morning sun has reached my window perch by the living room now, laying a warm square of light across the cushion. I leap up into it automatically, because some instincts run deeper than others. Outside, the world moves in distant human patterns. Cars. Wind. A dog being walked several buildings over with the hollow enthusiasm of creatures too eager for approval.

I circle twice before settling down.

The house smells safe. Coffee. Dust. Laundry soap. Old books. Bacon grease lingering faintly in the kitchen. Beneath all of it is the steady familiar scent of the human moving around downstairs.

Alive. For now.

I stretch one paw into the sunlight and close my eyes.

There will be other opportunities. Kitchens. Staircases. Desk lamps balanced near edges. The bathtub remains promising. Winter will come eventually, and with it space heaters and dry air and electrical fires waiting patiently within the walls.

A professional understands the importance of patience.

Besides, morning naps are important too.

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This is a response to day 19’s prompt for Bradley Ramsey’s “Halls of Pandemonium” writing event. Although I’m not participating in the scoring portion of the event (you know, since I, uh… wrote the backend for it), likes, comments and restacks will (maybe) help us achieve community goals and spread the word about the challenge.