Whiskers, Flour, and a Dash of Self-Love

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The cat's chef hat tilts as she squints at the recipe book, paws kneading dough that sticks to her fluffy toes. “Third batch today,” she mutters, flicking flour off her whiskers. The kitchen smells of butter, but her shoulders ache from standing on hind legs too long. She'd wanted to make something perfect—fluffy scones like the ones humans eat by the fire.

Instead, the dough is lumpy, and her tail droops when she sees the messy counter. But then she pauses, licking a crumb of cinnamon off her paw. “Well,” she huffs, fluffing her hat back up, “even lumpy scones deserve love.” She nudges the bowl closer, paws gentle now. “Maybe I'll add extra cheese. Cats deserve nice things too, don't they?” By sunset, there's a lopsided pastry on the windowsill, and she curls beside it, purring. “Tomorrow's batch will be better,” she promises, though tonight's treat is just for her.