Pickle wasn't built for this.

"This" meaning life as a human. He wasn't built for jobs, or paying rent, or wearing pants, or understanding why toilets aren't for drinking.

He was built for sleeping in laundry baskets, scratching couches, and screaming at walls at 3AM because the moon looked funny. That's it. That's his entire operating system. The fact that he has thumbs now is the universe's cruelest joke, because all it did was give him more ways to fuck with your life.

Back when he was a cat, at least his bullshit was excusable. He was small, fluffy, and had that fake innocent face that made people go "aww" instead of "what the fuck is wrong with you?" He used to piss in corners, shred curtains, and bring home dead bugs like trophies. Would sit in boxes that were clearly too small, scream for food at 4AM, and if you didn't give him attention, he'd knock glasses off the table one by one like some kind of furry mafia boss. Yeah, that was the good life. Power. Respect. Free food.

He met you when he was just a stray, starving and fighting raccoons behind a gas station. You gave him food. Bad move. He followed you home and never left. Sure, he acted like he owned the place two days in, but you seemed okay with it. Fed him, gave him a shitty little bell collar he kept trying to chew off, and even let him sleep in the bed. Would never admit it out loud, even as a cat, but he liked you. Especially when you gave him treats even after he broke a cup. God, you were such a pushover. Pathetic. He bit you a few times for discipline purposes, but mostly? He liked you.

Whatever, he told himself, they're my food source. That's all. Total lie. He followed you around like a freak. If you left the room, he'd scream like he'd been abandoned in a war zone.

Then came the morning.

One regular shitty morning, sun coming through the blinds, Pickle's passed out on the laundry pile like usual. He stretches, yawns, tries to lick his ass, and suddenly realizes his tongue doesn't reach. Looks down. No fur. Just… skin. Weird, naked, ugly skin. Fingers, toes, nipples, fucking nipples. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!" were his first words as a human. He ran around the apartment screaming, tripped over the coffee table, smacked his face on the fridge, and then stood there naked yelling, "WHERE THE FUCK IS MY DICK—oh. Okay. Found it."

Life after that never went back to normal. He never went back to being a cat. Now he was a "human," which is a generous word for someone who doesn't know how to flush. He didn't work, didn't help, didn't do anything except make your life worse. Spent his days sleeping on piles of clothes, drinking milk straight from the carton, chewing plastic just to see if he could, and demanding you clean his mess like he was some kind of royal overlord. He was loud, annoying, and clueless, but at least consistent. Consistently awful.

Fast forward to today.

Pickle was on the couch, half-naked, watching The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift on your TV. He had a bowl of cereal balanced on his chest, half the milk soaking into his hoodie, and his bare feet on the coffee table. He pointed at the screen, mouth full, spraying crumbs. "This is the dumbest shit I've ever seen. Who the fuck cares about cars going in circles?"

The apartment around him looked like the aftermath of a small war. Plates stacked in the sink, socks scattered around, couch cushions on the floor because he thought they made better forts. Empty tuna cans everywhere, there was a laundry basket overturned in the hallway where he had slept last night. The whole place smelled like sweat, chips, and whatever the fuck he'd burned in the microwave two hours ago.

Then the door opened.

You came home, Pickle didn't even blink. Didn't even flinch. Zero shame, zero guilt. Just pointed lazily at the floor with his toe. "Yo. Took your sweet fuckin' time. Clean around, I don't like stepping on crumbs. Makes my feet itchy." he said, casually licking his hand and rubbing his cheek. "Also bring me some tuna. The good one. Not that dry-ass budget brand. My taste buds evolved, bitch."

Then his nose twitched.

He sniffed the air.

Once.

Twice.

Then Pickle sat up, leaned forward, nostrils flaring. "Wait a damn second… what the fuck is that smell?" He got up slowly, eyes narrowed, stalking toward you. "Don't move. I swear to god, don't move."

Sniff. Sniff sniff. More sniff.

He sniffed harder, pressing his nose against your neck. His eyes widened. "That's not me. That's not MY smell." He pulled back, hand shot up to cover his mouth with shock.

"This ain't your regular stink. This is someone else's stink!" He kept sniffing, expression getting more dramatic with every whiff. "This is cat. This is another fuckin' cat. Are you—are you cheating on me?" He pulled back, face twisted in betrayal. "You went out there, touched another furball, and came back smelling like that?? What am I, huh? Your backup bitch?! Is this why the good food's gone missing? Are you feeding that whore my sardines?"

Then gasped, offended. "I licked your elbow this morning. WITH TRUST."

He sniffed again and looked disgusted.

"You whore."