Rannie the cat leaps onto the pulled-out typewriter shelf on the right side of my big oak desk, cooing ingratiatingly: "Woo-Ooooo."
I'm enjoying a bowl of fried rice, eggs, a few veggies and three kinds of fancy Italian lunchmeat (because fusion breakfasts are goood), which she promptly homes in on. I hold it back out of the way and lean right in, eye-to-eye with the cat: "Rannie, you know how they say, 'What's mine is yours?' This doesn't work that way," going forehead to forehead on the last line and delivering it in my best whiskey-contralto growl.
Rannie: "Eee, arnghk..." and she leaps down, passing parlously close to my half-full coffee cup in the process.
She went off and sulked a bit but came back, going floor-to-desktop in a single smooth levitation, singing "Waaarrngh!" as she landed. Now she's doing her best impression of a well-behaved Pharonic cat, sitting tail-over-toes with a butter-won't-melt expression. I'm not fooled. She's just biding her time.
Grow thumbs and get a job, cat, and I'll talk to you about sharing my food. You already had yours and a tablespoon of olive oil, too.
(Huck, noticing something was up, jumped to the shelf on the other side of my desk when I scolded Rannie. He's more direct -- a gentle shove and he was back on the floor with no hard feelings.)
1 week ago