The Contraceptive Cat
Kira was not just any cat. She was The Cat. The kind of cat that had her own playlist, her own heating pad, and the unshakable belief that the humans in her house existed solely to serve her emotional whims and open her favorite brand of tuna pâté.
And then… it happened. Her humans—let’s call them Lily and John —began talking in low tones about “the next chapter.”
Kira knew what that meant. She’d seen the signs: Pinterest boards with pastel nurseries, Googling things like “best prenatal yoga in Paris,” And worst of all—Lily had started talking to the dog next door.
The betrayal was biblical. So Kira did what any rational, slightly demonic, highly strategic cat would do: She declared war.
Every time John even thought of snuggling up to Lily, Kira would launch a sudden “affection attack”—kneading his chest like a sourdough starter,biting his toe with surgical precision,
or simply knocking over a lamp to create maximum chaos during prime babymaking hours.
They started sleeping in separate rooms.
Kira slept in both.
Just as Lily and John were about to take a romantic weekend getaway to Burgundy—
a little “wine and whispers” retreat…
Kira casually fell down the stairs.
Not all the stairs. Just enough to require a 600-euro vet visit and three different cat anxiety supplements.
Lily cried. John unpacked. Kira purred.
Every night, Kira would wait until the lights dimmed, then slowly inch between them like a fluffy, judgmental chastity barrier.
IfJohn leaned in? She farted.
If Lily lit a candle? Kira knocked it over.
If music played? She stepped on the Bluetooth speaker and put on Gregorian chanting. To this day, no one knows how she did that.
A year later, John and Lilly found themselves strangely content. They spoke of children in past tense, like something they once read about in French philosophy.
Meanwhile, Kira basked on her heating pad,
eyeing the unopened box of baby clothes tucked away in the attic with smug satisfaction.
Another day, another dynasty thwarted
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