Whiskers New Year Party

Whiskers had a habit of making himself known at exactly the wrong moments. A stealthy blur of fur, claws, and attitude, he strutted through life like the house—and all its contents—belonged entirely to him. Which, in his feline mind, they did.

New Year’s Eve was no exception.

The humans were throwing a party. Not the quiet kind with gentle clinks of glasses and polite conversation. No, this was a full-blown event with streamers, noisemakers, music thumping through floorboards, and the cloying scent of seven-layer dip wafting through the air.

To Whiskers, it was war.

From his perch atop the refrigerator, he surveyed the growing chaos. Strangers mingling, coats thrown over chairs, food left unattended on the counters. The humans were distracted. Vulnerable.

It was time.

At precisely 7:34 p.m., Whiskers executed his first move. With the precision of a military strike, he leapt from the fridge to the top of the pantry door, then down to the buffet table, landing squarely in the spinach artichoke dip.

Gasps followed.

"WHISKERS!"

He blinked once, as if to say, This is my house. This is my dip.

Then he sauntered off, tail high, trailing bits of green goop across the white tablecloth.

The humans scrambled to salvage what was left, but the message had been sent: Whiskers was watching.

By 8:17 p.m., he’d knocked over a champagne flute, clawed a balloon to death, and hissed at a guest in sequins who dared call him "Mr. Floofums."

Children tried to pet him. Mistake.

He darted under furniture, skidded across the polished hardwood, and left tiny scratch marks that would become part of the home’s character.

In the living room, guests were gathering for a group photo. Whiskers chose that exact moment to perch on the back of the sofa, lift one leg high into the air, and begin an enthusiastic cleaning session.

The camera flash captured the moment perfectly.

At 9:12 p.m., Whiskers zeroed in on a target: Karen.

Karen was not a cat person. She had made that clear the moment she walked in.

“I just don’t get cats. They’re... unpredictable.”

Whiskers heard. He understood. And he accepted the challenge.

He leapt onto the arm of her chair, stared deep into her soul, then launched himself into her lap.

Karen froze, wine glass tilted in panic.

“Um. Can someone—? Get him off me?”

But no one moved.

Whiskers, now purring loudly, made several slow turns, kneading her thighs with his claws before settling down like a smug loaf of bread.

“He likes you,” someone offered helpfully.

“I’m allergic,” Karen hissed.

Which is when Whiskers sneezed.

Right in her face.

Karen shrieked. Whiskers launched off her lap like a rocket, knocking her wine glass into the decorative pillows.

As she stormed off to the bathroom, muttering curses and cat-related conspiracy theories, Whiskers casually trotted past her shoes and deposited a hairball next to them for good measure.

At 9:42 p.m., he discovered the snack table’s crown jewel: the shrimp platter.

The humans had underestimated his agility.

He climbed a curtain, tiptoed across a decorative shelf, and launched himself onto the buffet. A single, triumphant moment of silence passed.

Then:

"No! WHISKERS!"

But it was too late. The platter flipped. Shrimp rained like confetti.

He snagged three in his mouth before disappearing into the shadows.

A guest stepped on a shrimp tail and did a dramatic spin before landing in a bean bag chair. The bean bag chair split. Foam beans erupted. Laughter followed. Then coughing. Then a loud sneeze.

By 10:15 p.m., the humans had devised a plan.

Lock Whiskers in the upstairs bathroom.

They even left a blanket, some food, and a few toys. He stared at the closed door for three minutes.

Then he opened the cabinet, knocked over a box of cotton swabs, pulled two towels into the litter box, and shredded a roll of toilet paper like it owed him money.

When a guest went in to retrieve aspirin at 10:53 p.m., Whiskers slipped out between their legs like a furry ninja.

At 11:20, Whiskers found his second target: Brad.

Brad had announced earlier that he was highly allergic and had taken two antihistamines as a preemptive strike.

“As long as the cat stays away, I should be fine.”

Whiskers heard.

He approached with the deliberate grace of a stalking tiger. Brad, oblivious, was mid-conversation about his fantasy football league when Whiskers slid up beside him, tail flicking casually.

Then, with one smooth leap, he landed directly on Brad’s chest.

“Oh no. No. No no no—”

Brad stiffened. His eyes began to water. His breathing went raspy.

Whiskers stared into his soul, sneezed once, and jumped off.

“GET THE CAT AWAY FROM ME!”

Brad stumbled to the kitchen, grabbed a paper towel, and blew his nose like a trumpet. A second antihistamine was fished from a jacket pocket like a lifeline.

Whiskers, satisfied, walked away as if he had blessed him.

In the moments before midnight, Whiskers escalated.

He chased a silver streamer down the hallway, tangling it completely around himself before bursting into the living room looking like a festive, possessed sausage roll. The children screamed. Some with laughter. Some in actual terror.

Then came the laser pointer.

Someone thought it would distract him.

Wrong.

He took the red dot’s betrayal personally.

He launched off a recliner, knocked a phone from a teenager’s hand, and landed in someone’s fruit punch. The laser pointer operator dropped the toy and backed away slowly.

Whiskers turned. He knew.

And he was coming for them.

Eleven forty-five. Glasses were filled. Hats were donned. Couples paired up. The humans were distracted.

Whiskers, emboldened, found the prize he’d been dreaming of all night: the tower of cupcakes.

They were glittery. They were iced. They were stacked in a gravity-defying pyramid of sugar and temptation.

He eyed it. Calculated.

Then climbed the drapes.

Launched.

And landed.

The crash was spectacular. Cupcakes flew like birds. Guests ducked. Someone screamed. Someone else slipped on frosting.

Whiskers, unfazed, trotted away with an entire vanilla cupcake in his mouth.

A lone voice from the hallway muttered, “We should’ve gotten a dog.”

Midnight struck.

The humans shouted. Confetti popped. Champagne spilled.

And Whiskers?

He sat on the mantel, watching the madness below with quiet satisfaction. Behind him, a tipped-over candle smoldered next to the tinsel. Someone screamed again.

"WHISKERS!"

But he was already gone.

Curled on the laundry pile upstairs.

Licking frosting from his paws.

Another year.

Another victory.