“Who’d feed us?” said the dog, head resting on her paws.
“Well I can fend for myself,” said the cat, as she stretched out a paw and extended her talons. “These claws weren’t solely meant for scratching the sofa. You, on the other hand, have no idea how to hunt. You’d probably perish. But your ineptitude is none of my concern.”
The dog rolled her eyes. “If you hate her so much, why don’t you just leave? Killing her seems so extreme.” Continue reading “That Sweet Spot | Flash Fiction”
