Moxie's Midnight Mischief

Cats. 800 words, 4 minute read. With Claude Sonnet and Midjourney.

The red digits of the alarm clock cast a faint glow across the bedroom: 2:13 AM. A pair of yellow-green eyes flickered open. Moxie's tail twitched once, then went still. The gray tabby's ears pivoted toward the two sleeping forms beside him, tracking the rhythm of their breathing.

Sarah's arm was flung across Michael's chest, rising and falling with his breath. She made that little whistling sound through her nose that she always denied making. Michael had kicked off half the comforter, one foot dangling off the mattress.

Humans are creatures of habit, Moxie reflected, and habits create predictability.

When Sarah shifted, mumbling something about "quarterly reports," Moxie tensed. Her hand reached out, patting the space beside her before falling limp again.

He uncoiled his body in a silent stretch, each paw extending deliberately, claws sheathed to prevent any telltale clicking against the hardwood floor. Michael had left his slippers askew on the floor again. Moxie skirted them carefully, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the hallway bathroom—the same one Michael promised to fix every Sunday.

Three silent leaps brought him to the kitchen counter. Moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating his target—the blue bag of Gourmet Delights Premium Cat Treats.

"He's not smart enough to open this," Michael had said last month, twisting the bag closed. "He's cute, but he's just a cat."

Sarah had laughed. "Remember when you said he wasn't smart enough to open the bathroom door, and then he learned to jump up and hang on the handle?"

"Dumb luck," Michael had insisted.

Moxie sniffed at the twisted closure, detecting Sarah's hand lotion. His first attempts at treat theft had left telltale tears in the packaging. Now he knew better. Carefully, he took the twisted paper between his teeth, applying just enough pressure to unwind it without tearing.

The rich aroma of salmon and chicken hit his senses. With surgical precision, he extended one paw into the opening, extracting a single treat. He used both front paws to re-twist the bag's opening, nudging and patting until it matched its previous state.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

Moxie's pupils dilated. He slipped behind the toaster, treat still in mouth, pressing his body against the cool tile. His tail curled tightly against his body.

Michael shuffled into the kitchen, scratching at his stubbled chin. He squinted against the refrigerator light as he pulled it open.

"Where'd I put that..." he muttered, rummaging among containers. "Ah."

He emerged with half a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Michael's gaze drifted around the kitchen. Moxie held his breath as those sleepy eyes passed over the toaster.

"Huh." Michael picked up the treat bag, turning it over in his hands. "Could've sworn I left that in the pantry."

For three excruciating seconds, Moxie thought he'd been discovered.

Then Michael shrugged and shuffled toward the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. "Moxie? You out here, buddy?"

Moxie remained silent, invisible.

"Weird." Michael yawned. "Thought I heard something."

The bedroom door clicked shut. Moxie waited until he heard the mattress creak, then counted to three hundred. When he finally emerged, he surveyed the kitchen for any evidence before making his silent return journey.

He slipped back onto the bed, navigating the warm hollow between Sarah and Michael. He curled into a tight circle, positioning himself exactly as he'd been before—a detail the humans would never notice but that satisfied his own standards.

Only then did he allow himself to enjoy his prize, nibbling in tiny, quiet bites. Each morsel dissolved on his tongue, rich with forbidden flavor and the satisfaction of outsmarting those who underestimated him.

Sarah's hand found him in the darkness, her fingers automatically sliding into the soft fur behind his ears.

"Mmm, there you are," she murmured, her eyes never opening. "Dream anything good, little guy?"

Moxie began to purr—not the natural purr of contentment, but the carefully calibrated rumble he'd perfected to convey innocent sleepiness.

"I love how he sleeps through the night," Sarah whispered. "My sister's cat is up at all hours causing trouble."

Michael rolled over, one arm flopping across both Sarah and Moxie. "That's because Moxie's a good boy," he slurred. "Not like that hellion she has."

"Best cat ever," Sarah agreed, already drifting back to deeper sleep.

If only you knew, Moxie thought, whiskers still tinged with evidence of his crime. Behind his innocent façade churned the mind of a master strategist, already planning his next conquest while his humans dreamed on, blissfully unaware of the complex intelligence sharing their bed.

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