Set the grocery luggage down and, poof, the Household Feline Inspection Team materializes like they had been summoned by the sacred crinkle. A tiny nostril beeps each barcode, a paw stamps the receipt, and the meowdit begins. Bread is accepted for loafing, lettuce is said suspicious (“too leafy; probably illegal”), and the rotisserie hen is straight away confiscated by the Tiny Snack Authority for “further investigation.” Boxes convert into customs checkpoints, the counter turns into an unauthorized runway, and the inspector enforces TSA: Touch Snacks Aggressively.
Cans are rolled for stress testing, yogurt is allegedly licked, and the deal with pouch is interrogated till it confesses and opens itself out of worry. Anything string-shaped is tagged as enrichment. The bag rustles once more, whisker sirens activate, and a second cat teleports in from the astral aircraft like, “I heard treats.” Inventory notes are filed by sitting instantly in your listing, tail swishing like a highlighter.
At final, shelving concludes with paw-prints in every single place and one mysterious hair inside the cereal field. The supervisor flops in a sunbeam and invoices fee in head bonks and snack tax.
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