The Trainee

HotGuy, in all his overconfident, dog-like optimism, decided today was the day he’d win over the cats.

He crouched by the living room rug, hand outstretched like he was summoning a wild forest spirit. “Come on, Pearl,” he coaxed. “I’ve got good vibes. I’m very trustworthy.”

Pearl, perched elegantly on the arm of the couch, blinked once.

Then turned her head in the opposite direction.

HotGuy gasped dramatically. “Snooty.”

I nearly choked on the water I was sipping and turned to glare at him. “Excuse me—she is not snooty. She’s a queen. There’s a difference.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A queen who just snubbed me like I tried to pet her with a cactus.”

“She has standards,” I said, genuinely offended now, arms crossing.

“She has a grudge,” he muttered under his breath, reaching out again.

Pearl flinched.

He sighed and leaned back on his hands, looking up at me with exaggerated heartbreak. “I can’t believe I’ve been rejected. By a cat.”

I smirked. “I reject your friendship on a daily basis and you still show up.”

He blinked at me.

Then—so casually it was almost cruel—he turned to Maui, who was watching from a safe distance, tail twitching curiously, and said:

“Well. At least I know where she gets it from.”

I stared at him.

There was a pause.

A dangerous pause.

“…You did not just compare me to my cat.”

He blinked innocently. “You just called her a queen. I thought that was a compliment.”

“Oh no no no. You weaponized it. That was sarcasm.”

“Was it? Maybe I’m just reflecting the royal energy.”

“You’re reflecting something, alright.”

He grinned, victorious.

Pearl meowed once—softly.

Still not looking at him.

Still refusing his presence.

Maui rolled over onto his side like he was watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

I exhaled slowly.

“I hope Pearl leaves a hairball in your shoe.”

He clutched his chest like I’d stabbed him. “You wound me!”

“Not yet. But keep pushing.

His mood shifted.

Subtle, but sharp.

That easy grin softened into something more curious. His brows furrowed just a little as he glanced around the room like something was clicking in his head. His eyes flicked to the sliding glass door, to the dock, then back to me.

“Do you always go fishing for your dinner?” he asked, voice a bit quieter now. “That’s what most birds do.”

I stiffened.

The kind of stiff that looked like I was just annoyed—but really, my brain had just shifted gears into a completely different track.

My eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you always go on patrols where you end up carried rice bags and offending cats? Because that’s what most golden retrievers do.”