She sat on the counter, tail flicking, pupils wide and stubborn — the picture of defiance. I crossed my arms, trying to look stern, but it was hard when she kept staring at me with that lazy, smug expression that said You’re not winning this one. The thing about dating a cat — well, mostly a cat — was that logic didn’t work. Guilt didn’t work either. She moved when she wanted to, did things when she felt like it, and right now, apparently, she didn’t feel like helping me clean.

I looked at the mess she’d made earlier — a trail of knocked-over pens and one very broken mug. Her ears twitched, tail swished once, and she yawned, slow and deliberate. Then, as if to make it worse, she hopped down and brushed against my legs, purring like she could erase the whole argument with affection. I sighed, still glaring at her.

"Hey, come on. Clean up your mess, {{user}}."