Chapter 8: Sunday Morning Chaos

Usually.

Today, however, is not one of those days.

Today, the house is a war zone of culinary ambition.

It starts at 7:00 AM. The sun is barely peeking over the horizon when Hajime decides that today is the day he becomes a master chef. He wakes up with a strange burst of energy, bustling into the kitchen with the determination of a general marching into battle.

The smell hits us first. It drifts into the living room where we are all sleeping in our cat forms, curled up in various piles of fur. It is a thick, savory scent. Dashi stock. Miso paste. Grilled mackerel. Steamed rice. It is the smell of a traditional Japanese breakfast, and it wakes us up instantly.

One by one, five pairs of eyes snap open.

"Food", Muji projects instantly into our minds. He is currently an orange tabby sleeping upside down on the rug, his legs in the air. He rolls over with a thump. "I smell fish. Real fish. Not the dried pellets".

"Hajime is cooking", Kenuji observes, lifting his grey head from his paws. He sniffs the air critically. "He is making miso soup. But... do you smell that? It smells slightly scorched".

"He is burning the toast", Yoshi identifies the scent from his perch on the refrigerator. "Hajime always burns the toast. He gets distracted".

"We should supervise", Inoe says, stretching her calico body into a long, elegant arch. "For safety reasons. And quality control".

We migrate to the kitchen. We do not run; we saunter. We are the masters of this domain, after all.

The kitchen is chaotic. Hajime is wearing an apron that says "Grill Master" on it, which Naomi bought him as a joke last Father's Day. He is moving between the stove, the cutting board, and the rice cooker with frantic energy. He is humming a song that is slightly off-key.

Naomi is there too, setting the table in the adjacent dining area. She looks sleepy, her hair in a messy bun, wearing oversized pajamas.

"Dad, do not forget the eggs!" Naomi calls out, stifling a yawn. "I want them sunny-side up, not scrambled!"

"I know, I know", Hajime says, waving a spatula. He turns back to the stove, where a pan of fish is sizzling aggressively. "I have a system, Naomi. Everything is under control".

He does not have a system. And nothing is under control.

We enter the kitchen. We weave between Hajime's legs, careful not to trip him, but making our presence known.

"Meow", Inoe says politely, rubbing against his shin.

"Oh, careful, Mimi!" Hajime looks down. He gently scoops Inoe up with one hand. "You are going to get stepped on. Up you go".

He places Inoe on the floor outside the kitchen boundary.

Inoe lands on her feet and looks insulted. Her tail flicks back and forth—a sign of extreme annoyance. She hates being handled like a common pet.

"He touched me", Inoe transmits, her mental voice dripping with indignation. "He picked me up like a sack of potatoes. I am a five-hundred-year-old spirit. I demand respect".

"He is just trying to keep you safe", I say, sitting near the doorway. I am watching the fish pan with intense focus. "Also, you are fluffy. Humans cannot resist the fluff".

Inoe huffs and walks over to the water bowl. She drinks aggressively, splashing water over the rim just to make a point. Lap-lap-lap-splash.

The chaos in the kitchen intensifies. The fish is popping and spitting oil. The miso soup is boiling too hard, threatening to froth over the pot. The toaster oven dings.

"The toast!" Hajime yelps. He spins around to grab the toast.

But in his haste, he forgets the most important element of a Japanese breakfast.

The rice.

The rice cooker is an old model. It sits on the edge of the counter, next to a stack of very important-looking papers—bills, tax forms, and a letter from the city council that Hajime has been stressing about all week.

As Hajime fiddles with the hot toast, the rice cooker begins to make a dangerous noise. Gurgle... hiss... bubble.

"Warning", Kenuji projects, his eyes narrowing behind his invisible glasses. "Pressure buildup detected in the rice cooker. The steam vent is clogged. It is about to overflow".

"The lid is lifting", Yoshi notes from the top of the fridge. "It is going to blow".

A stream of starchy, boiling white water erupts from the side of the lid. It spills over the edge of the cooker. It flows across the counter like a miniature river of lava.

And it is heading straight for the stack of papers.

Hajime does not see it. He is too busy trying to scrape burnt crust off the toast into the sink.

"The papers!" Kenuji shouts telepathically. "If those get wet, the ink will run! Hajime will be upset all day! That generates negative energy in the house!"

"Negative energy is bad for digestion", Inoe adds, watching the water creep closer to the documents. "Someone do something!"

"I am too far away", Yoshi says. "I cannot reach it in time".

"I am on it", Muji thinks.

Time seems to slow down.

Muji—in his orange tabby form—launches himself into action. He does not hesitate. He does not calculate. He just acts.

He leaps onto a dining chair. Thump.

He leaps onto the dining table. Thud.

He gathers his hind legs under him, his muscles bunching like steel springs. He targets the counter. He launches himself through the air, a flying orange missile of determination.

"Tiger! No!" Hajime shouts, turning around just in time to see a cat flying at his food preparation area. He thinks Muji is trying to steal the fish. "Get down!"

Muji ignores him. He is not a thief today. He is a savior.

He lands on the counter, skidding slightly on the smooth surface. He lands right next to the bubbling rice cooker. The hot water is inches away from the papers.

Muji raises his right paw. He extends his claws slightly for grip.

Whack.

He bats the stack of papers.

Whack. Whack.

He hits them with force, knocking the entire pile off the edge of the counter. The papers flutter through the air like wounded birds. They land safely on the dry linoleum floor, scattered but safe.

A split second later, the river of hot rice water reaches the spot where the papers used to be. It pools harmlessly on the Formica counter, dripping onto the floor, missing the documents by inches.

Muji sits down on the counter. He looks at the puddle of water. He looks at the papers on the floor. He looks at Hajime.

Hajime stands there, frozen. He is holding a piece of burnt toast in one hand and the spatula in the other.

"Oh no! The rice!" Hajime finally reacts. He rushes over. He turns off the cooker and grabs a rag to dam the flood.

He wipes up the water frantically. Then, he pauses. He looks down at the floor.

He sees the tax forms. He sees the bills. They are dry. Perfectly dry.

He looks back at the counter where the puddle is. He realizes that if the papers had been there, they would be ruined pulp.

He looks at Muji.

Muji is sitting there, licking his paw casually. He looks incredibly smug. If a cat could smirk, Muji is smirking right now.

"Did...", Hajime stammers. He scratches his head with the hand holding the spatula, getting a bit of grease in his hair. "Did you save the bills, Tiger?"

Muji stops licking his paw. He looks Hajime dead in the eye.

"Meow", Muji says.

It is a demanding, loud meow. It translates roughly to: Yes, I did. And I expect compensation.

"I think he wants fish, Dad", Naomi laughs, coming into the kitchen to pick up the papers. She checks them. "Wow. Not a drop on them. He totally saved your taxes".

Hajime chuckles. The tension leaves his shoulders. "I guess he did. Smart cat. Maybe the smartest cat in the world".

He looks at the grill. He looks at the perfectly cooked mackerel fillet.

"Well", Hajime says. "A hero deserves a reward".

He takes a knife. He cuts a generous piece of the grilled fish—the best part, the fatty belly meat. He blows on it to cool it down. He puts it in a small ceramic bowl.

"Here you go, Tiger", Hajime says, placing the bowl on the floor. "Good boy".

Muji hops down from the counter. He does not rush. He walks to the bowl with dignity. He sniffs it. He begins to eat, making loud, happy smacking noises.

Yoshi, Kenuji, Inoe, and I watch from the doorway. We are paralyzed with jealousy.

"Unbelievable", Yoshi mutters telepathically, his tail twitching with envy. "He causes chaos. He jumps on the counter—which is strictly forbidden, by the way—and he gets rewarded. He gets the belly meat. I love belly meat".

"It is unfair", Inoe agrees, her eyes wide as she watches Muji eat. "I am the pretty one. I am the well-behaved one. I should get the fish".

"He knocked the papers on the floor", Kenuji analyzes, shaking his head. "Technically, that is bad behavior. But the outcome was positive. Hajime is reinforcing the chaotic variable. This sets a dangerous precedent".

"It is called strategy", Muji transmits between bites of fish. "You guys are playing checkers. I am playing 4D chess".

"You are just lucky", I say, my stomach growling. "You probably were trying to knock the rice cooker over".

"We will never know", Muji says cryptically. He licks the bowl clean. "But this fish is delicious".

Naomi finishes setting the table. Hajime serves the breakfast—toast for him (burnt), eggs for Naomi, and soup for both. They sit down to eat.

"Hey", Naomi says, looking at the rest of us huddled in the doorway. "The other kitties look jealous".

"They didn't save the tax returns", Hajime says, laughing. "But... I guess it is Sunday".

He stands up. He goes back to the grill. He cuts four smaller pieces of fish.

"Okay, okay", he says, putting the pieces in our bowls. "Everyone gets a treat. But no jumping on the counters, okay? Only Tiger gets a pass today".

We do not wait. We swarm the bowls.

"Acceptable", Yoshi says, eating his piece in one bite.

"Adequate", Kenuji agrees, chewing slowly.

"Finally", Inoe purrs.

I eat my fish. It is warm, salty, and savory. It tastes like home.

Being a hero is thankless work. We fight demons in the sewers. We battle gods in the sky. We protect the city from eternal darkness, and nobody ever knows. We get no parades. We get no medals.

But being a house cat?

Being a house cat pays in grilled mackerel.

And as I look around the kitchen—at Hajime laughing about his burnt toast, at Naomi feeding Muji a piece of egg under the table, at my siblings eating together in a row—I decide that maybe, just maybe, this is the better gig.

"Hey", Muji says, looking at my empty bowl. "Are you going to eat that crumb?"

"Yes", I snap, licking it up. "Back off, hero".

Muji purrs and rubs his head against my shoulder. The sun finally breaks through the window fully, bathing the kitchen in warm, yellow light. Sunday morning chaos has subsided, replaced by the sleepy, full-bellied contentment of a family at rest.