Which one would you prefer? Choose well! And if you enjoy the game, share with cat loving friends, because ultimately, we love cats.
Title: The Chihuahua’s Comeuppance (or: How a Cat Stole the Crown)
When a pint-sized tyrant meets a battle-scarred calico, the palace of “MINE!” gets gloriously renovated—one purr at a time.
In a velvet-draped villa of crystal and fluff,
Lived Prince Pepe, a Chihuahua so tough.
His throne was a cushion, his scepter a bone,
And “SHARE?” was a word he’d never been shown. His bowl was pure gold, his treats caviar-grade,
His sweaters monogrammed, his nails spa-parade.
He’d yap, “That’s MINE!” at the sun, moon, and air,
Till the echo itself learned to whimper in prayer. Mom and Dad sighed, “Our baby needs schooling,”
So they opened the door to a cat who’d been dueling
With alleys and rainstorms, with fate and with strife—
Meet Calico Cleo, nine-tenths survivor, one-tenth life. Her fur was a patchwork of battles and scars,
Her eyes held the secrets of junkyards and cars.
She strolled past the Chihuahua like he was a sneeze,
And claimed the sunbeam he’d taxed with late fees. Pepe squeaked, “INTRUDER! That light is MY lease!”
Cleo yawned, stretched, and purred, “Kid, cool it—capisce?”
She batted his crown (just a flick of one claw),
Then curled in his bed like she’d written the law. He huffed. He puffed. He called lawyers (voicemail).
She opened one eye: “Try me, shorty, I eat squeaky toys for retail.”
Next morning his kibble? Mysteriously halved.
His throne? Now a duplex. His ego? Re-shelved. Day two, Cleo “shared” a hairball on his throne.
Day three, she “shared” his blanket—now her own.
By day five, Pepe whispered, “Maybe… co-ruling?”
Cleo smirked, “Split the treats, and we’ll talk about dueling.” He offered one nugget. She offered a purr.
He offered his pillow. She offered her fur.
Soon both lounged together on sunbeams for two,
While Mom snapped the photo: “World peace—début!” Pepe learned fast that a kingdom divided
Beats yapping alone while the cat just abided.
Now he shares his gold bowl (well, half, on good days),
And Cleo still rules—but lets him keep praise. Moral, dear tyrants in training-wheel crowns:
The cleverest claws turn “MINE!” into “OURS.”
