Whisker and the Falling Moon

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Whisker sat on Mrs. Henderson's fence, counting clouds. One sheep-shaped cloud. Two turtle clouds. Three clouds that looked exactly like boring old clouds. His tail twitched with each count. "Seventeen... eighteen... nineteen..." he muttered, his whiskers drooping with boredom. The other cats were probably doing exciting things like chasing mice or knocking over flowerpots. But not Whisker. He was the town's official Cloud Counter, a job he'd invented himself last Tuesday. A yawn stretched his fuzzy face wide. "Twenty clouds. Same as yesterday. Same as always." His eyelids felt heavy as curtains. Maybe he'd just rest them for a tiny moment...

PLOP! A raindrop splashed directly onto Whisker's pink nose. His eyes snapped open. "Rain? But I counted zero rain clouds!" He scrambled down from the fence, shaking droplets from his orange fur. More raindrops pattered down, creating puddles on the sidewalk. Whisker zigzagged between them, trying to keep his paws dry. "This is all wrong," he grumbled, ducking under a mailbox. "Clouds are supposed to warn me before they rain. That's the whole point of counting them!" The shower passed as quickly as it came, leaving sparkly puddles everywhere. Whisker poked his head out, whiskers twitching suspiciously at the now-clear sky.