The suitcase appears and boom, the cat activates Travel Prevention Protocol. Step one: occupy the carry-on like a determined loaf. Step two: shed a "souvenir" layer on every outfit. Step three: audit the sock department and sit on the zipper for security. Hoomans call it packing, felines call it kidnapping prevention. Every open case becomes a purrito station, every folded shirt a deluxe nap pad, every packing cube a bonus crate labeled "mine."
Attempts to relocate the kitty trigger starfish mode, tractor-beam eyes, and a tragic little chirp that means, "Surely you're not leaving without your emotional support gremlin." Treat bribes are accepted but never binding. Sunbeam breaks occur, but then surveillance resumes immediately. The boarding pass acquires exactly one glittering whisker. If the suitcase actually closes, a mysterious extra half-pound of "love" remains inside, evenly distributed across your nicest blazer.
At the door, the final gambit begins: dramatic flop on the shoes, strategic tail over the keys, and a long slow blink that functions as the Stay Home Spell. Trips are delayed until adequate chin scritches, apology snacks, and a legally enforceable promise to FaceTime the cat from the hotel.
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