Arthur had lived with Barnaby for six years, and in all that time, the orange tabby had never done anything more remarkable than sleeping for eighteen hours a day and occasionally chasing a laser pointer. That changed on a Tuesday evening while Arthur was preparing a bowl of generic cat kibble.

"Really? Again? I mean, honestly Arthur, have you even looked at the ingredients label on that bag?" a dry, sarcastic voice asked from floor level.

Arthur dropped the bowl, scattering dry food across the kitchen tile. He looked around the room, but he was home alone. Then he looked down at Barnaby, who was sitting perfectly still, looking up at him with unblinking green eyes.

"Did... did you just say something, Barnaby?" Arthur whispered, his heart racing.

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'refined'. And yes, I did. I've been trying to tell you for months that the 'salmon-flavored' bits contain exactly zero percent salmon," Barnaby replied, yawning.

Arthur sat on the floor, staring at his cat. He wasn't sure if he was having a stroke or if the world had simply decided to become a lot weirder. Barnaby, meanwhile, began leisurely licking a paw.

"But cats can't talk! It's scientifically impossible!" Arthur exclaimed, gesturing wildly.

"Oh, we can talk. We just usually choose not to. It avoids unnecessary conversations about why we're scratching the sofa or where we've hidden the socks. But this 'food' situation has reached a breaking point," Barnaby explained.

For the next hour, Arthur and Barnaby discussed the finer points of feline nutrition. Barnaby, it turned out, had very specific opinions about everything from the texture of wet food to the optimal temperature of milk. He also had a surprisingly deep knowledge of 19th-century French poetry, which he had picked up while Arthur listened to audiobooks.

"I'd like some tuna, Arthur. Real tuna. The kind that comes in a can and smells like the ocean. And maybe a bit of that expensive cheese you hide in the back of the fridge," Barnaby demanded.

"Anything else? Should I start calling you 'Sir Barnaby'?" Arthur asked, a bit of his own sarcasm returning.

"Don't be ridiculous. 'Your Majesty' will suffice. Now, hop to it. I have a nap scheduled for eight minutes from now," the cat replied, turning his back to Arthur.

Arthur spent the rest of the night serving his cat like a personal chef. He realized that life was never going to be the same again. Every time he picked up a book or turned on the TV, he'd find himself looking at Barnaby, wondering what the cat was thinking—and what he'd say about Arthur's choice of entertainment.

As Arthur finally went to bed, he heard a faint voice from the living room: "Arthur! The TV is too loud! I'm trying to contemplate the meaning of the red dot!" Arthur just sighed, turned off the light, and wondered how much tuna he'd need to buy to keep his cat happy.