I approached this morning the way one approaches a live grenade in a sock drawer: slowly, with resignation, and a fully rehearsed sigh of bone-deep exasperation — my soul full of the grim resolve of a veteran marching once more toward a battlefield she never enlisted for.
The gremlin had the coat. The stance. The sunglasses. He was already posed. Coat flung wide. Chin up. All the usual warning signs that something unspeakably feral was about to be unveiled to an unsuspecting houseplant, postman, or passing deity. The whole dreadful pageant arranged with the theatrical confidence of a critter who has, historically, made catastrophic choices. I braced myself for whatever new chapter of diabolical — yet absolutely inevitable — behaviour that has haunted my stewardship of this creature since the regrettable day he learned he had a pelvis.
And yet — miracle of minor mercies — no obscene flourishes. No triumphant waggling of imaginary appendages. Against all precedent, prophecy, and lived experience, he unveiled… chocolate. Just chocolate. Tasteful, artistic, even. Almost… restrained.
This could have gone catastrophically worse. Instead, by some cosmic clerical error, being slightly off-centre has, for once, paid dividends. The universe blinked, misfired, and granted me a victory so small it barely qualifies as one — yet I will carry it like a medal.
I will not relax. I will not trust him. Ever.
But I will take the win.