The alarm on Cheddar’s phone, a tiny plastic tuna can, had been set for 6:00 AM sharp. Unfortunately, Cheddar had hit the snooze button approximately seventeen times. He finally jolted awake at 8:15 AM, realizing with a stomach-lurching horror that his shift at the Meow Mix Manufacturing Plant started at 8:00 AM.
“Oh, barnacles!” he squeaked, leaping from his crumpled bed. He scrambled to pull on his little blue collar and hard hat—safety first, even when you’re incredibly late. He didn’t even have time to groom his whiskers properly.
Cheddar burst through the factory doors at 8:35 AM, skidding on the freshly polished linoleum floor of the quality control department. He braced himself, knowing what was coming.
A shadow fell over him. It was Bartholomew “Barty” Bigglesworth, the plant manager, a Maine Coon with a perpetually annoyed scowl and a tie that was always perfectly straight. Barty’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble that could curdle milk.
“Cheddar!” Barty’s voice echoed in the cavernous space. The other cats froze, their little paws hovering over their kibble sorters.
Cheddar tried to look small. “Mr. Bigglesworth, sir, I am so sorry, I—”
“Save your excuses, Cheddar!” Barty boomed, marching closer, his huge paws thudding on the floor. “Do you see this clock, Cheddar?” He pointed a massive paw at a giant wall clock shaped like a sardine. “It says 8:35 AM! That is thirty-five minutes past the official start of your shift!”
Cheddar’s ears drooped. “I overslept, sir. The dream about the endless catnip field was very convincing.”
Barty’s tail twitched with fury. “This isn’t a slumber party, Cheddar! We make tuna-flavored crackers here! Quality control doesn’t check itself! You are the final line of defense against sub-par crunchiness! Do you know how many potentially soft, insufficiently fishy crackers have slipped past in the last half hour?”
Cheddar shook his head miserably.
“I don’t either,” Barty spat, “but the point is I shouldn’t have to worry about it! This is the third time this month, Cheddar! The third! Are you a kitten, needing a nanny to wake you up?”
“No, sir. I’m three years old,” Cheddar mumbled.
“You’re on thin ice, Cheddar. Very thin ice!” Barty leaned in close, his enormous muzzle practically touching Cheddar’s. “Now get to your station and start sniffing. And if I catch even a hint of a lack of commitment, you’ll be spending your next lunch break with the janitorial team, sweeping up rogue whiskers! Understood?“
“Yes, Mr. Bigglesworth! Understood!” Cheddar cried, then scurried to his little workbench, already starting to desperately sniff a conveyor belt of tuna-flavored crackers. He was definitely going to buy a better alarm clock. Maybe one that made a very loud “mice in the kitchen” sound.
