Whisker Fever Is Left With Enemy

Whisker Fever had suffered a really horrible, angry, bad day. He had not gotten the Kibble he wanted. His master was way. Creature he’s left him with was too prissy and stuck-up to like. He would have pedaled away if he had been left with a bike. “Oh, Whiskers,” she cooed, in a saccharine voice, irritating him. She had a tiny bit of oatmeal stuck firmly to her left chin. “Where is my big boy?” she crooned, like she was a friend. If he had an axe, he would have given her a swift happy end. “Where are you Honey?” she asked in a voice meant to please. He hid in the smallest cupboard, a place his body could barely squeeze. Tonight when she was asleep, he had a diabolically wonderful plan. He would dump all her fish, watch them twist in his hand. Then he would gulp them up and spit out their heads. Their eyes would go buggy showing their last moments of dread. Whisker Fever was angry as all get up, and wanted to leave. But then she brought home catnip, and renamed him King Steve.