"Charly and Seraphina Blanc de Lune"

[Verse 1] Up to that morning, life was great. Big house, good human, just us two. Straight. He handled the fridge, I handled security. Solid arrangement. Long-term stability. Then suddenly he's in the hallway, all brushed up, holding a little pet carrier. Not normal. Nobody grabs a box like that at sunrise unless the outcome gets a whole lot scarier. I jumped from my bed to assess the scene and accidentally let one rip. The sound hit so hard I spun around and gave my own behind a double-check sniff. Quick inspection. Aha. Last night's extra sausage had one last comeback from the past. Culinary triumph. Atmospheric collapse. He opened the door so I could go outside and handle my business fast. Thoughtful of him. In hindsight, maybe self-defense. When I came back in, that carrier on the floor looked like a badly wrapped consequence. I walked over slow with the courtesy of a dog who didn't know his whole life's about to bend. I sniffed. A little puff came from inside. Then one tiny spit-drop hit me in the face, and I knew it on the spot: Nothing good was in that box. Or worse, something small with a very big mouth. [Verse 2] In the carrier sat a tiny white kitten with a little pink bow. Looked completely harmless. That's how these things go. Like a cute little present for very stupid people. But the smell said different. The warning was lethal. It didn't smell like fluff. It didn't smell innocent or sweet. It smelled like major trouble balancing on miniature feet. She stared without blinking like the deed to the house had already been signed. Then she lifted one paw, half a meatball at most, and tapped the grate like she had this line: All right then. Let's just see how much longer you're the boss around here. My human made those noises people make when cuteness wipes out reason and pride. And I stood there slowly getting what this meant: that this tiny white catastrophe was moving in with us for life. [Chorus] I used to be the boss here. Big house, clear system, crystal clear. Now this tiny white kitten lives in my vicinity with a little pink bow and criminal energy. My human says, Be nice, Charly. I am nice. I am ridiculously nice. But this little fluffball smells like trouble every day and acts like the new management moved in yesterday. I swear I used to have a quiet life. One bowl, one couch, one man, one plan. And now I get terrorized on a daily basis by two hundred grams of delusions of grandeur. [Verse 3] Since that day, I have suffered. Quietly, with dignity, usually right by the food bowl. That kitten floats through my life like a fluffy state of emergency wearing a bow. She sleeps in my beds, gets applause just for breathing, and smacks my human in the face without anybody calling the police or even opening a case. If I lean on him, I'm too heavy. If she leans on him, she's adorable. If I make noises, it's worrying. If she hisses, spits, and slaps my nose with no warning, she's brave. Brave. She's the size of my breakfast and runs the whole house. And I, Charly, former only prince of an orderly home, now live with a little white problem in a pink bow that has my human locked down in her tiny paws. [Chorus] I used to be the boss here. Big house, clear system, crystal clear. Now this tiny white kitten lives in my vicinity with a little pink bow and criminal energy. My human says, Be nice, Charly. I am nice. I am ridiculously nice. But this little fluffball smells like trouble every day and acts like the new management moved in yesterday. I swear I used to have a quiet life. One bowl, one couch, one man, one plan. And now I get terrorized on a daily basis by two hundred grams of delusions of grandeur. [Bridge] And sometimes, when she finally falls asleep, curled up small, pink bow hanging crooked off one ear and all, I can see she's really just a baby after all. A lot of fur, a huge mouth, no clue about anything at all. She doesn't know that used to be my bed. She doesn't know older dogs deserve respect. She doesn't even know how ridiculous she can look when she tries to act important, mad, and tough. So I sigh. Because she smells like trouble, but she smells like home. Because she's awful, sure, but tiny to the bone. And you can't stay truly mad, not for very long, at someone who just doesn't know any better yet. [Outro] Now we share the dog bed, the human, and the sunny patch out in the hall. She still steals my peace, and I still save my dignity, daily, through it all. But when she's scared, she sleeps right by my side. And when I dream, she curls up close to me. She's still cheeky. I'm still annoyed. I guess that's part of our story now. Trouble turned into routine, routine turned into closeness, and that little white problem with the pink bow turned out to be true love after all.