**I SWAPPED BODIES WITH MY CAT — AND NOW HE’S GOING TO WORK.**
The machine hummed, a faint scent of ozone filling the air. They said it was experimental, a way to truly understand animals.
I volunteered. For science. Mostly for the bragging rights. One moment, I was looking at Mittens. The next, I was *in* Mittens.
He – I mean, I – stood, stretched, and looked down at my former body. “Well, this is awkward,” I thought. Then, he walked to the closet.
He pulled out *my* suit. He grabbed *my* briefcase. He kissed my wife goodbye. “Have a good day, honey,” he said. My voice. In my cat’s body.
Now, he’s walking out the door to go to my job. He has no idea what I do. I can’t stop him.
⬇️
Panic clawed at me, a frantic feline heartbeat hammering against my ribs. Mittens – *I* – was halfway down the driveway, my human legs awkwardly propelling my furry frame forward. The briefcase, impossibly heavy, swung against my flank. I could feel the horrified stares of the neighbors, but I couldn’t communicate. My meows sounded like strangled whispers.
The office was a sensory overload. The fluorescent lights hurt my eyes, the smells of coffee and stale air were overpowering. My human colleagues stared, open-mouthed. Sarah, from accounting, actually shrieked. Mr. Henderson, my perpetually grumpy boss, just glared, his expression a terrifying blend of confusion and disgust.
“Mr…Mittens?” He finally croaked, his voice laced with disbelief. “Are you…wearing a suit?”
My attempt at a professional greeting resulted in a pathetic yowl. The ensuing chaos was a blur of frantic whispers and concerned phone calls. I managed, through a series of desperate gestures and pathetic meows, to indicate the need for my laptop. Somehow, miraculously, I navigated the complex login process – I still knew my passwords, of course, but typing with my paws was a nightmare.
Then came the Zoom meeting. The faces on the screen swam before my vision. I managed to stammer out a few coherent sentences, mostly due to my muscle memory taking over. But when it came time for the complex sales pitch, my attempts devolved into frustrated yowls and panicked batting at the keyboard. The clients looked terrified.
The day ended in complete and utter disaster. My reputation was in tatters. My job was, quite possibly, gone. As I limped – on all fours, naturally – back home, I felt a profound sense of despair.
But then, at the door, I saw her. My wife, holding a small, intricately carved wooden box. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was a second machine, identical to the one that had cursed me. She hadn’t just volunteered me; she’d volunteered *herself* as a backup.
“I knew something was off,” she said, her voice trembling. “The cat was acting… strangely affectionate. Too human.”
The twist? The machine wasn’t about understanding animals; it was about understanding *us*. A secret government project to swap minds and observe human behavior under extreme stress. My wife, a brilliant but ethically compromised scientist, had been the mastermind behind it all. And she wasn’t just my backup; she was the true experimental subject. The whole thing had been meticulously controlled, from the beginning.
Her plan? To subtly sabotage her own research, to expose the morally reprehensible experiment. This entire day of feline chaos had been her carefully calculated rebellion against her own creation. She smiled, a complex mixture of relief and something akin to terrifying resolve in her eyes. The drama wasn’t over. It was just beginning. The question was, who controlled the machine now? And who would be inhabiting whose body tomorrow?