Paws on the Wheel, Eyes on the Nap

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The cat grips the steering wheel with both paws, tail twitching stiffly. "Third shift in a row," it mutters, claws kneading the leather worn smooth by too many pretend commutes. The radio hums static—no one ever tunes it to bird-watching channels anymore. Outside, raindrops tap the windshield like tiny bosses knocking on an office door.

Brake pedal's getting paw sore," it sighs, though no one's listening. "Last night, a squirrel ran a red light and didn't even apologize." But then it licks a paw, slow and deliberate, like applying lotion after a long day. "Still," it says, louder now, "my fur's the best high-visibility vest there is. And tomorrow…" A yawn splits its face, whiskers trembling. "Tomorrow I'll park by the sunspot. Maybe steal an extra nap. I deserve it.