The battlefield, once a amalgamation of claws, teeth, and snarls, had suddenly gone so silent you could almost hear everyone collectively shitting their pants.
All eyes were on the giant library-tree-thing that was now slowly, dramatically, falling over like the world's most screwed-up game of Jenga.
Hearts pounded in chests as they watched the building tilt and creak, like some slow-motion disaster movie they couldn't escape.
The impending crash was going to be so catastrophic that the village might as well slap a "Closed for Renovations—Check Back in a Decade" sign at the front gate.
And all that ancient cat history? Those precious scrolls and books? Poof—about to be flattened into historical kitty litter.
As the building tipped further, the cats and dogs had already started mentally preparing their tearful goodbyes to their culture.
