"Don’t move an inch."
That was the first thing Harold heard when he woke up on his couch. His eyes blinked open, and standing two feet away was his cat, Sir Whiskerton, balancing—quite majestically—on top of Harold’s chest with a live lizard dangling from his mouth.
The problem wasn’t the lizard. Harold could handle lizards. The problem was that the lizard was also holding something.
A lit sparkler.
“Whiskerton,” Harold said carefully, as one does when negotiating with a cat who has clearly gone rogue, “why is the lizard armed with pyrotechnics?”
The cat blinked in smug silence, which Harold translated as: You told me you wanted more excitement in your life. You’re welcome.
Meanwhile, the lizard wriggled, sparks cascading dangerously close to Harold’s blanket. Harold froze, remembering the first rule of his disastrous life: whenever something weird happens, moving only makes it worse.
Then, from the kitchen, his roommate Kevin shouted, “Oh good, you found Larry!”
“Larry?” Harold croaked.
“Yeah, the lizard. I’ve been teaching him circus tricks.”
“KEVIN. HE’S ON FIRE.”
“Not on fire,” Kevin corrected, strolling in with the calm of a man who has never respected safety manuals, “just near fire. Big difference.”
Sir Whiskerton chose that moment to drop the lizard directly onto Harold’s lap, apparently deciding the show was over. Larry the lizard, sensing freedom, scurried up Harold’s shoulder and onto his head—still waving the sparkler like he was leading the world’s smallest parade.
Harold sighed, realizing his obituary would one day read: Death by housecat-assisted pyrotechnic reptile.
And yet… he didn’t move an inch.
Therapy Bits 
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