I was halfway through scrubbing Whiskers' antique food bowl (he insists it's "vintage") when the doorbell rang. Whiskers perked up from his velvet throne (formerly my armchair).
"Don't answer that," he warned, twitching his tail. "It's Clawdette."
Too late. I opened the door to reveal a sassy Siamese in a tiny beret, sitting on the porch railing with a clipboard.
"Bonjour," she purred. "Your landlord has failed to file the proper fur-mite control paperwork. As Vice President of the Neighborhood Watch, I must inspect ze premises."
Whiskers groaned. "She's been after me ever since I didn't vote for her in the Tuna Referendum."
For the next hour, I trailed behind Clawdette as she toured the apartment, sniffing things and meowing passive-aggressively at the litter box placement. Meanwhile, Whiskers muttered under his breath about "feline bureaucracy" and "the tyranny of tabby rule."
By the time Clawdette left, Whiskers was stress-eating a bag of organic catnip. I made tea. We both stared into the distance.
"They're watching us," he said solemnly, then knocked over a mug for dramatic effect.