Saturdays are Caturdays! Hiatus over. Kitty Noir: The Sardine Heist

It was Tuesday, and Tuesdays have a smell all their own. Trouble was brewing, a thick cut of it hanging in the air, and this time it stunk of fish and bad luck. That morning, the mark sat out in the open: one sardine—oil-slick, silver, gleaming with the cheap promise of a payday. I tailed it all day from my perch on the windowsill, eyes narrowed to slits, tail carving slow figure-eights on the linoleum. Waiting for the break.

Then the phone sounded off. My human, slave to routine, turned her back to babble to some unseen accomplice. That’s when the job went to hell.

He slipped in through the cracked window: Jasper—gray as regret, cold-eyed, feet soft like secrets. I’d seen his handiwork before, and it always ended the same way—someone looking foolish, someone else holding the goods. This time, it looked like I’d drawn the short straw.

Jasper moved—fast, low, liquid—barely a whisper across the tile. One heartbeat, he was at the mark; by the next, the sardine was gone. Vanished. All that was left was the shadow of a score I never touched. I’d been had.

But Jasper’s too cocky to be careful. He always leaves a trail—smears of fish oil, a grease tattoo on the kitchen tiles, as sloppy as a drunk’s confession. I followed the signs: a slip here, a glint there. Down the hall, past the radiator coughing heat, under the old credenza, and into the rug room where light went to die.

There he was: Jasper. On his side, stretched out like a fat-cat kingpin, sardine clamped between his mitts. He grinned, wide and wicked. That look said, “You wanna take a shot, doll? Be my guest.”

Me, I didn’t blink. I just stared, all cold fury and patience. Then the universe did what I couldn’t—tipped the scale. The sardine jolted loose, rolled off Jasper’s paw, once, twice, coming to rest at my feet like an apology from fate.

Jasper’s grin broke. He slunk back to the window, tail down, dignity left on the rug. He’d botched the job—first time for everything.

I took the prize slow, chewing on victory as much as fish. Tuesday was still sour, the world still crooked. But the sardine? The sardine was mine.