The apartment was filled with the groggy hum of a half-awake hoomin vacuuming and muttering to himself.
Sunlight filtered in, but the boys could tell something was… off.
Benno had climbed to the top of the bookshelf, now boldly renamed:
“The Watchtower.”
Tail wrapped neatly. Ears forward.
Eyes scanning the kingdom below like a fluffy general.
Benno: “Lohe, he’s doing it again. Cleaning. Vacuuming. Grumbling. No signs of breakfast.”
Lohe (from under the sofa): “He was up till 2:30. Eurovision again.”
Benno: “Ah yes. The Festival of Glorious Chaos.”
Benno cleared his throat, clearly preparing for an official recap.
Benno: “Let the record show: Sweden attempted to do sauna onstage. In towels. Steam effects. Buckets. Some man was ladling pretend water.”
Lohe: “Cultural and confusing. We approve.”
Benno: “And Estonia… oh, Estonia. They sang about drinking espresso, but in bizarre Italian that made no sense. One lyric was ‘molto boom boom amore spaghetti.’”
Lohe (nodding): “Profound.”
Down below, hoomin sneezed, tripped over a cat toy, and cursed quietly in three languages.
Benno (squinting): “Also, BREAKFAST was delayed by TWO HOURS.”
Lohe: “An international scandal.”
Benno: “Unforgivable. Unless ham is involved later.”
The hoomin finally noticed he was being stared at by two judges—
one upside-down under the coffee table,
the other silently looming from the Watchtower like a judgmental gargoyle.
Hoomin (yawning): “Alright, alright. Eurovision is once a year, give me a break…”
Benno: “So is breakfast. Daily. 07:00 hours. Precision matters.”
Lohe: “We tolerated the late feeding. But only because of the laser goats and the disco accordion battle.”
Eventually, breakfast was served—extra treats included as a diplomatic apology.
Benno: “Let this be a lesson. Glitter is no excuse for delay.”
Lohe: “But next year, we demand our own scorecards.”
Sunday morning ends with a full belly truce, Eurovision critiques still being debated, and one hoomin who now knows that even chaos must be punctual in the feline kingdom.
