Managing one reality-bending pet was a full-time job; managing two was a logistical nightmare that led Leo, inevitably, to the pet store for more supplies.
Max's "deconstruction" of every toy Alex owned meant a desperate need for replacements. And Milo, whose appetite remained cosmically vast, was down to his last can of premium salmon pâté.
The pet store, once a place of simple commerce for Leo, now felt like a high-stakes stage. Every corner held the potential for exposure, every other customer a potential witness to some new, unexplainable feat of pet-based absurdity.
He walked down the aisle of cat treats, Milo perched regally on his shoulder.
Milo's eyes, sharp and intelligent, scanned the shelves. He was no longer just looking for food; he was assessing targets. His gaze flickered past the cheap, generic brands, lingered for a moment on the mid-tier options, and then settled, with laser-like focus, on the top shelf.
There, in a gleaming, foil-packaged bag, were the 'Ocean's Bounty' freeze-dried salmon chunks. The absolute pinnacle of feline delicacy. The kind of treat that cost more per ounce than some precious metals.
It was also, of course, on the highest, most inaccessible shelf, a deliberate placement by store management to tempt owners into impulse-buying expensive products.
Milo's gaze met Leo's in the reflection of a nearby display case. A silent challenge was issued.
That one, human. The food of my people. Procure it.
"Not a chance, you furry extortionist," Leo muttered under his breath. "We are on a budget."
Milo's response was a subtle, almost imperceptible tensing of his muscles.
A young clerk was busy restocking a lower shelf nearby, humming off-key to a pop song playing on the store's speakers. He was oblivious, a mundane bystander in a world of unfolding magic.
Leo turned his back for a single second to examine a bag of husky-proof chew toys for Max.
In that second, Milo moved.
It was a flicker. A whisper of motion. Not the impossible, physics-defying leap from the other day, but something far more subtle. A perfected, practiced application of his 'Silent Stroll'.
He was on Leo's shoulder one moment, a solid, purring weight.
The next, he was a silent shadow, flowing up the shelving unit like smoke.
He reached the top shelf. A single, swift paw hooked the gleaming bag.
He was back on Leo's shoulder before Leo had even fully registered the brand name on the chew toy bag.
It took less than a second. It was utterly silent.
It was a perfect crime.
The young clerk finished his restocking, stood up, and glanced at the top shelf. He froze. A frown creased his brow.
"Huh," the clerk muttered, scratching his head. "I could have sworn I just put a full box of those up there."
He stared at the spot where the bag of 'Ocean's Bounty' had been, a single, lonely space in the otherwise perfectly arranged display. "Did a mouse get it? No, it's too high. Am I losing it? My goodness, I need more coffee. It just… vanished!"
His voice was a mixture of confusion and genuine self-doubt. He began a frantic, quiet search, checking behind other products, peering under the shelf, his muttered monologue a testament to Milo's subtle gaslighting.
Leo felt his heart thumping in his chest. He had to act fast.
He nonchalantly reached up to the shelf below the top one, grabbed a similar, but much cheaper, bag of salmon treats, and placed it in his basket.
Then, with the stealth of a spy, he slipped the stolen, top-shelf bag from where Milo had cunningly tucked it under the collar of his jacket, and placed it in the basket as well.
He walked towards the counter, his stride casual, his expression bored, even as his insides churned with the adrenaline of a successful cover-up.
Milo, perched on his shoulder, let out a tiny, smug meow. He looked at Leo, a triumphant, almost arrogant gleam in his eyes. It was a look that said, See? We are a team. I acquire the goods. You handle the mundane financial transaction. It is a perfect system.
"Just these today?" the clerk asked, his eyes still darting nervously back towards the cat treat aisle.
"And this one," Leo said, placing the stolen bag on the counter. "He's a very picky eater."
The clerk scanned the bag. His eyes widened slightly at the price. "He's got expensive taste."
"You have no idea," Leo said, his voice flat.
As he paid, the clerk was still muttering to himself. "Maybe I never stocked it at all. Maybe I just imagined it. Wow, I really need a day off."
Leo scooped up his purchases and walked out of the store, the automatic doors hissing shut behind him.
He could feel Milo's purr, a low, rumbling vibration of pure victory, against his neck.
He looked down at the bag containing the ridiculously expensive cat treats.
He was no longer just a pet owner. He was the getaway driver.
As he stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, Leo felt the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes on him—the casual glances of passersby, the uninterested stares of people waiting for the bus. But to his newly paranoid mind, every glance was a potential observation, every stranger a potential witness.
He had to be more careful. He had to be more aware of who—or what—was watching.