Countertop Ambush

I slipped down from the bookshelf and navigated the open territory into the kitchen. Cold tiles offered zero cover. High ground required. Using the crossbar of a tall barstool, I climbed onto the smooth granite counter. Immediate freeze. Three paces away, a white paper napkin fluttered under the draft of an air vent. Target acquired. I lowered my center of gravity, tail stiffened level with my spine. Counted three beats. Spring. My sickle claw pinned the paper flat with a sharp tear. Silence returned. It did not fight back. Just dead pulp. I nudged the shredded fold aside with my snout. Unthreatened, but vigilant.