Half of a conversation, anyway, as a large and striped yellow tomcat stands up and pats the edge of the table, hoping I won't notice:
"Why yes, Huck, French Toast: the housecat's normal prey."
Huck says nothing, just sits back and gazes up at me with a confident expression.
"Oh, all right, I suppose milk, eggs and 'butter' do count," since cats don't know from margarine, "But not bread, sugar, cinnamon or vanilla!"
Huck continues to stare, now joined by Rannie doing her best impression of a black-velvet painting of a sad-eyed child. A tiny flake of nicely browned French Toast escapes my fork and both cats track it but -- ha! -- they're too slow. I catch it before it hits the floor and they both turn and stalk off, every step as eloquent as a stereotyped Sax Rohmer villain: "You have foiled us this time, Nayland Smith, but we will return...!" And thus depart the beautiful, wicked Celestial and the giant tiger that is her closest (if not always appreciated) companion. Or something.
(This morning's menu: French Toast, a strip and a half of bacon and a Roseholme Tomato Cup, which is a very large cherry tomato or very small regular one quartered, seasoned with a bit of "Montreal Steakhouse" mix and served in a tiny bowl. Juice and coffee or, for Tam, some heart-racing energy drink, 'cos snarkin' ain't easy.)
1 month ago