If it’s a box, it must be sat in.
No questions. No hesitation. No survival instincts.
So when a brand-new, suspiciously small box appeared in the middle of the living room, Milo knew what he had to do.
He circled it once.
Twice.
Suspicious…
He tapped it gently with his paw. Nothing happened.
“Safe,” he concluded, with zero evidence.
Now, any normal creature would realize the box was clearly too small.
Milo was not a normal creature.
He backed up. Wiggle. Wiggle.
And launched himself into the box with full confidence.
Physics disagreed.
The box collapsed instantly.
Milo vanished.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then… a slow rustling.
Out of the flattened cardboard emerged Milo’s head, followed by the rest of his dignity (barely intact). He sat there, half inside the destroyed box, looking deeply offended.
He looked at the human.
The human looked at him.
“…You good?”
Milo blinked slowly, as if to say:
“This was the box’s fault.”
Then—because lessons were not learned—
he adjusted himself…
…and tried to sit in it again.
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