Scratch Duty: A Cat's Tale of Couch Defense

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The cat sprawls on the cardboard scratcher, tail flicking lazily at the sunlight slipping through the curtain. "Another day of guarding the couch from invisible intruders," it mumbles, stretching a paw that still tingles from morning's vigorous carpet patrol. The scratcher's edges are worn—proof of dedicated shifts—but the red rim matches the warm spot where the human leaves their coffee mug each dawn.

It sighs, nose twitching at the faint scent of tuna from the kitchen. Humans think cats nap all day, but guarding requires vigilance: one eye open for falling dust bunnies, ears perked for the mailman's threatening footsteps. "Maybe tomorrow I'll unionize," it jokes to the curtain, knowing the human would just laugh and scratch its chin. For now, the scratcher's corrugated comfort is enough. Even warriors need soft landings.