Claws and Consequences

The kitchen was still. A shaft of moonlight streamed through the cracked windowpane, illuminating the polished tile floor. Somewhere near the refrigerator, a clock ticked with deliberate finality.

In the silence, a soft scrabble of tiny claws broke the calm—followed by a pounce.

A squeak.

Then silence again.

Pinned beneath a velveted paw, the mouse trembled, whiskers twitching, black eyes wide.

“Well,” purred the cat, “isn’t this awkward—for you.”

The mouse swallowed hard. “Seems we’ve found ourselves in a bit of a cliché.”

The cat cocked its head, amused. “A talking mouse with gallows humor. How refreshing. Tell me, what’s your name, morsel?”

“Name’s Tobias. And you?”

The cat leaned down until its yellow eyes were inches away. “I am Reginald, Third of His Name, Conqueror of Cabinets, Slayer of Shadows, and Duke of the Dustbin Realms.”

Tobias blinked. “That... sounds exhausting.”

Reginald’s whiskers twitched. “Being regal is a burden. But one I carry with grace.”

“Of course,” Tobias said quickly. “You’re clearly majestic. I mean, your fur practically gleams under the moonlight. That’s... that’s coconut oil, right?”

The cat arched an eyebrow. “Fish oil. Grain-free diet. Artisanal pellets.”

Tobias nodded reverently. “No wonder you pounced so fast. I barely had time to scream.”

“Yet scream you did,” Reginald said. “A good pitch, too. You’d do well in opera. Alas, your final aria has come.”

He flexed his claws.

“Wait!” Tobias squeaked. “Before you do the whole... death thing. May I propose an alternative?”

Reginald yawned. “You mice are always proposing something. Last week one offered me cheese in exchange for his life. Spoiler: it was Kraft Singles. I ate him and the cheese out of spite.”

“I’d never insult you with processed dairy,” said Tobias. “But I do have something better.”

The paw lifted slightly—not off, but just enough.

“I’m listening.”

“A story,” said Tobias.

Reginald blinked. “A story?”

“Yes,” Tobias said. “A tale so incredible, so mind-bending, that you’ll forget your stomach entirely.”

“You think a yarn can outshine my hunger?”

Tobias shrugged—or tried to, pinned as he was. “You’re a cat of culture. Surely you appreciate the art of narrative.”

Reginald considered. “Go on, then. Impress me. But should I yawn twice, I’ll devour you mid-sentence.”

Tobias cleared his throat. “Once upon a time, there was a noble cat. Let’s call him... Sir Reginald.”

“Charming,” the cat said.

“He ruled a vast house with an iron paw, feared by spiders and socks alike. But then, one day, he discovered a prophecy.”

Reginald’s ears twitched. “A prophecy?”

Tobias nodded. “Hidden beneath the radiator, scrawled on parchment by the last wise mouse of the Old Clan.”

“This is absurd,” Reginald muttered.

“But entertaining,” Tobias added.

“Continue.”

“The prophecy read: He who devours the Chosen Mouse shall be cursed with eternal flatulence.”

Reginald’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the twist you’re going with?”

“There’s more!” Tobias insisted. “You see, the Chosen Mouse bears the Mark.”

“What mark?”

Tobias twisted slightly and, using his tail, flicked a patch of fur near his hind leg. A small, suspiciously heart-shaped bald spot was visible.

Reginald leaned closer. “Is that mange?”

“No!” Tobias squeaked. “It’s the Sacred Emblem of Whiskerholm. Passed down through generations. You strike me down, you doom yourself to... well, you know. Tooting.”

Reginald sat back, uncertain.

“I’ve had... a bit of gas lately,” he muttered.

“There you go,” Tobias said quickly. “It’s already begun.”

The cat frowned. “That could be from the salmon pâté.”

“Or the curse.”

They sat in silence.

Reginald’s tail flicked nervously.

Tobias seized the moment. “But if you spare the Chosen Mouse... legend says you shall receive a gift.”

“A gift?” Reginald echoed.

“A boon of feline fortune. Endless naps in sunbeams. Forbidden access to the ‘good’ couch. A thousand belly rubs—without the betrayal of sudden tail pulls.”

Reginald’s eyes grew wide. “Is... is that even possible?”

“Not unless you spare me.”

The cat looked down at his prisoner. “You’re very clever for a snack.”

“I’m a philosopher,” Tobias said. “I nibble on metaphors more than crumbs.”

“Perhaps I should keep you around,” Reginald said. “As entertainment.”

“Free-range entertainment,” Tobias added. “Better for your digestion.”

The cat purred thoughtfully. “What would stop me from chasing you the moment you scamper off?”

Tobias grinned. “The burden of curiosity. For if you eat me, you’ll never know if the prophecy was true.”

Reginald narrowed his eyes. “A gamble.”

“Life is,” said Tobias. “But consider this: What’s nobler? To devour a witty rodent, or to show mercy and bask in legend?”

There was a long pause. A very long pause.

Reginald sighed.

With a flourish, he lifted his paw. “Go, then, Prophet of Cheese. Scamper before I change my mind.”

Tobias didn’t hesitate. He darted toward the baseboard and disappeared behind it with a grateful squeak and one final shout: “Long live the Duke of Dustbin!”

Reginald sat in the moonlight, staring at the hole in the wall.

From deep within his belly, a single brrrrt escaped.

He winced.

“Blast.”