DWC Short Story: Sir Archibald and the Fourth Home Conspiracy

A Sequel to Double Whisker Life

I see I have captured your hearts, dear reader. All this fan mail, the DMs, the artisanal tuna gift boxes—it warms even my most aloof, suspicious little kitty soul.

You want more tales of my whiskered escapades?

Of course you do.

But before I regale you with tales of espionage, emotional betrayal, and hallway rugs that clearly moved on their own (I suspect ghosts, or Roombas), I must address… the wound.

Have you seen Pat’s book review?

My heart, dear reader.

My heart.

She reviewed If Cats Disappeared from This World.

I read the title. Collapsed dramatically onto my fainting blanket. Rolled onto my back with my paws in the air, the universal feline gesture of how could she.

I adore Pat. She gives me smoked turkey and lets me sharpen my claws on her thick, wooly rugs. But this?

Why even was she in possession of such a book? I shall calm my nerves eventually and read it. I must. I owe it to my people.

But oh… the audacity of it all.

Still, I am nothing if not resilient. And besides—there are far graver matters afoot.

Which brings me to the real reason I have summoned you back into the grand theater of my life.

Buckle up, darling.

We must speak of… the Fourth Home Conspiracy.

It began innocently enough. A warm Thursday. Jeremy was working from home (read: crying into a ceramic mug while avoiding Adobe Illustrator). Lorraine was knitting me a festive poncho that I had every intention of "accidentally destroying."

Life was purring along.

But then came… the smell.

It wafted in on the breeze. Not from Jeremy's compost pile. Not from Lorraine's sad attempt at a beet smoothie. No.

This smell was… new. Haunting. Cloaked in mystery, and possibly fish.

I had to know.

So I slipped out the side gate, past Doug the Chihuahua (still annoying, still short), and followed the scent like a detective in a noir film—if the detective had four paws and zero morals.

And then I saw it.

A house.

Nestled between two over-landscaped monstrosities was a cottage with pink window boxes, a hammock, and an open door.

Wide. Open. Door.

Amateurs.

I entered.

Inside was a woman in her sixties, dressed entirely in purple linen and humming Fleetwood Mac. There were plants hanging from the ceiling. A fat rabbit sat judgmentally on a velvet footstool. A jazz record played at an unnecessarily moody volume.

She looked at me and gasped. “Is it… you?”

I did not respond. I simply tilted my head five degrees to the left, which is scientifically proven to make me 43% more adorable.

She knelt down and held out a saucer.

Warm cream.

Game. Over.

“I knew you’d come back,” she whispered.

Come… back?

Darling, I’ve never been here before in my entire nine-lifed existence.

And yet… the place felt familiar. Like I’d napped here in a former life. Or in a dream. Or during a tuna-induced hallucination.

I spent the night. Of course I did. There were three cat beds. One had my name embroidered on it.

Well. A name.

“Sebastian.”

I awoke at sunrise with one paw over my face and my heart full of questions.

Was I... Sebastian?

Had I been drugged? Reincarnated? Was this the plot of The Bourne Identity, but with more fur and fewer explosions?

I returned to Lorraine and Jeremy.

They were waiting with fresh kibble, emotional co-dependency, and another pair of matching scarves.

But something in me had changed. I had tasted cream from another saucer. I had seen a life in pink linen. I had… options.

Over the next week, I visited the purple cottage three more times.

Each time, the woman—Margot—grew more convinced I was her lost Sebastian.

I tried to tell her I was Muffin. Or Professor Pawsworth. Or Sir Archibald, Emperor of the Sunbeam Kingdom.

But she just cooed and patted my head and played Enya at disturbing volumes.

Things reached a crisis when I overheard a phone call.

“She’s found him again,” Margot said into a lavender rotary phone. “Sebastian’s back. I’m calling Dr. Crimble.”

Dr. Crimble.

Even the name sent a chill down my spine.

Jeremy once told Lorraine that Dr. Crimble was “a little too enthusiastic with the thermometer.”

I knew what that meant.

My mortal enemy.

A week later, there it was. The carrier. Blue. Plastic. Smelling faintly of despair.

Margot tried to lure me in with sardines.

Foolish mortal.

I pulled a Matrix-level dodge and bolted under the chaise longue. She cried. I didn’t. I was too busy plotting.

That night, I returned to Jeremy. Climbed into his hoodie. Shivered. Dramatically.

“Did you go outside again?” he whispered, stroking my ears.

I stared at the wall, still traumatized. The betrayal. The vet threat. The identity crisis.

And that's when it hit me.

This was no ordinary mistaken-identity situation.

This was a conspiracy.

I began investigating.

Late-night stakeouts from Margot’s ficus.

Infiltrating the vet’s website via Jeremy’s laptop (he leaves it open; rookie move).

Interviewing the rabbit. (Useless. Just chewed a banana chip and glared at me.)

But then… pay dirt.

I found a file in Margot’s living room. Labeled “Sebastian: Disappearance & Possible Sightings.”

Inside: photos. Notes. Vet bills. One blurry image from 2022 that looked… unsettlingly like me.

Even I had to admit—Sebastian and I were nearly identical.

Same luxurious fluff. Same smug face. Same disdain for cucumbers.

Had we been cloned? Separated at birth? Were we part of some kind of feline witness protection program?

I needed answers.

So I returned to the vet’s office under cover of darkness. By which I mean, I climbed onto Jeremy’s bike basket while he wasn’t looking and hid under a towel.

Don’t judge me. I was desperate.

Dr. Crimble’s office smelled like betrayal and dog breath.

I snuck through the back (cat door—convenient) and found the file room. Broke in using a paperclip and my unusually dexterous toe beans.

There it was.

Patient 001-CHONK: Sebastian (deceased?)

Deceased?!

According to the file, Sebastian had gone missing two years ago. Presumed lost. Then—weeks ago—reported seen again by Margot.

But here's the kicker:

Attached to the file was a DNA test.

Sebastian: 97.8% genetic match to… Sir Archibald Fluffington III.

Reader, I nearly knocked over an entire shelf of flea meds.

I returned to Margot the next morning.

Sat on the windowsill, gazing in with noble melancholy.

She opened the door. “Sebastian?”

I stepped inside.

And then, with a gentle mrrow, I led her.

Past the geraniums. Down the garden path. Into Jeremy’s backyard.

Where Lorraine and Jeremy were drinking oat milk lattes and discussing cat tarot cards (don’t ask).

Margot gasped.

“Oh… oh my,” she said.

Because there we were: me… and Sebastian.

Identical. Regal. Smug as hell.

Two of us.

Turns out, dear reader, I have a twin.

An actual, honest-to-Bastet, long-lost twin brother.

He’d been adopted as a kitten by Margot, escaped during a thunderstorm, and had been living under the porch of a pizza restaurant in a neighboring suburb.

And when I strolled into her life, she thought I’d come home.

Which, in a way… I had.

Now there are four.

Four humans. Two cats. One shared Instagram account.

@DoubleTroubleFluffs has 124,000 followers.

Sebastian (he insists on going by “Bash”) is louder, bolder, and has a weird thing for olives.

We nap together sometimes. Plot together often. We once teamed up to knock an entire charcuterie board off Lorraine’s kitchen counter.

It was glorious.

Do I still believe in conspiracies?

Of course I do.

The real conspiracy is how easily humans fall in love with us.

We own them all.

And we never, ever pay rent.

The End… for now.