Whiskers Smells Something Bad

It was the sound that woke him first. A soft whimper, high-pitched and unfamiliar, weaving its way into his dreams like an off-key violin. Then came the smell — damp fur, sweet breath, the faint tang of something young and stupid.

Whiskers sat up on the windowsill, his tail flicking once with precise irritation. His ears turned toward the hallway. The house was quiet, but not the usual kind of quiet. There was tension in it. He could smell it. Hear it in the way the woman shuffled her feet too fast in the kitchen, the way the boy whispered too much to the girl, and the way the man kept opening and closing the garage door for no reason.

Something was different.

He leapt down and padded across the floor, stopping just inside the living room. His nose twitched. The scent trail was fresh, sharp with saliva and clumsy excitement. His pupils narrowed.

There. A blanket on the couch rustled. A pair of tiny, clumsy paws flopped out.

Whiskers crouched low.

A nose poked out from beneath the blanket. Then a head. Floppy ears. Beady eyes. Pink tongue. The thing yawned.

A puppy.

Whiskers recoiled. Not from fear. From offense.

The creature stood on unsteady legs, tail wagging with brainless joy. It tripped over the blanket, stumbled forward, and squeaked.

Whiskers did not move.

The girl entered the room. "There you are, Whiskers," she said softly, kneeling. The puppy yipped and ran to her.

"This is Max," she said, scooping up the wriggling body and placing him gently on the rug. "He's just a baby. Be nice, okay?"

Whiskers stared at her, then at the puppy. Then at her again.

You have betrayed me, he thought.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of offense.

Max followed everyone. Max licked everything. Max peed on the floor. Everyone laughed.

Whiskers watched it all from high perches: the bookshelf, the windowsill, the laundry basket. He listened. He cataloged. He sniffed the air and tried to make sense of the dumb chaos this creature brought.

At night, Max cried. Whiskers listened from the hallway.

The man came out of the bedroom, grumbling. The woman followed. They coddled the puppy and placed a soft, old sweatshirt in a basket. The girl came out too and stroked Max behind the ears.

Whiskers flicked his tail.

By midnight, Max was asleep. Whiskers approached.

He sniffed once. Twice. The smell was worse up close. Wet fur. Dog food. No dignity.

Max twitched in his sleep, legs flailing.

Whiskers sat beside the basket. He lifted one paw slowly. Carefully.

Then he smacked Max on the nose.

The puppy yipped awake, eyes wide. Whiskers hissed, ears back, tail fluffed to twice its size.

Max didn’t bark. He shrank into the blanket and whimpered, eyes huge. Whiskers sat back and cleaned his paw.

Balance had been restored.

Over the next few days, Max learned to keep a little distance. He still followed, still tried to play, but when Whiskers glared, he stopped. When Whiskers growled, he backed off.

Still, something shifted. Max no longer whined at night. He sniffed before entering rooms. He waited. Observed. Imitated.

One evening, the boy found them sitting near each other in the hallway. Not close. But not far.

"Look," he said. "They’re not fighting."

"Whiskers is just getting used to him," the girl said. "He's the boss. Max is learning."

Whiskers blinked slowly.

Max wagged his tail once, cautiously.

A thunderstorm rolled in one night. Loud. Violent. The windows rattled.

Whiskers, usually calm, bristled at the electric air. Max trembled in his basket, whining.

Whiskers stalked into the living room. Sat beneath the window. Watched.

A flash. A crack of thunder.

Max scrambled from his basket and ran straight to Whiskers, pressing into his side.

Whiskers hissed.

But didn’t move.

Max shivered. Whiskers licked his shoulder.

Minutes passed.

Eventually, both were still.

When the woman came into the room to check on them, she paused.

There they were, curled up together on the rug. The puppy's head rested lightly across Whiskers’ back. Whiskers’ tail curled around Max's paws.

The woman smiled. "Look at that."

The man peered in. "Finally made peace."

"More like a truce," the girl said.

Whiskers flicked an ear. Max sighed in his sleep.

Thunder rumbled again. Neither moved.

Together, they slept.

From that night on, Whiskers found Max tolerable. Occasionally useful. Once, a giant buzzing insect entered the kitchen. Max barked at it. Whiskers leapt from the counter and batted it down midair. They both chased it under the table, around the legs of a chair, and finally cornered it against the refrigerator. Whiskers delivered the killing blow.

Max licked it.

Whiskers gave him a long, disgusted look and walked off. Max followed.

That evening, the family praised them both. The boy patted Max. The girl picked up Whiskers and scratched his ears. Whiskers purred loudly and gave Max a smug glance from over her shoulder.

Sometimes, they competed for attention.

Max would roll on his back and bark, tail thudding the floor like a drum. Whiskers would leap gracefully onto the couch, place a paw on the girl’s lap, and blink with regal patience.

Once, Whiskers jumped into a laundry basket and pretended to nap just to draw the woman over with a camera. Max immediately dove in after him and knocked the basket over. Whiskers tumbled out, unimpressed.

Later, they both climbed into a warm pile of towels fresh from the dryer. By the time the woman returned, they were side by side, eyes closed, chins resting on the same rolled-up sock.

As the weeks passed, their bond deepened.

Max learned that if Whiskers twitched his ears twice, he was not in the mood. If he curled his tail around his paws, it was safe to lie nearby. If Whiskers bolted from a room, Max was to follow — something interesting was happening.

And Whiskers learned that Max, while absurd and occasionally wet, was brave.

During one backyard adventure, a squirrel got a little too close. Max barked, but Whiskers gave chase. The squirrel darted up the tree, chattering. Max ran in circles at the base while Whiskers sat on the fence, victorious.

The girl clapped. The boy whooped. Both pets basked in glory.

That night, they shared a dish of leftover chicken. Whiskers batted Max’s nose once when he tried to take the bigger piece. Max waited. Whiskers pushed a small shred his way.

It was respect.

On a quiet Sunday, the family found them again in the living room. Whiskers sprawled across the top of the couch like a prince. Max lay below, snoring softly. Between them sat a torn plush mouse and a half-chewed tennis ball.

The girl smiled. "They’re best friends now."

The woman laughed. "They're a team."

Whiskers opened one eye and gave a slow blink. Max wagged his tail in his sleep.

Yes, Whiskers thought. A team — as long as everyone remembers who’s in charge.