Minnie Strange Reasonings

From some obscure household hiding place our feline stopwatch suddenly appears in my kitchen. From this I deduce that inside of two seconds my husband will report for eggs and toast. I am correct. Minnie's right on time with her first conjuring performance of the day.

She lies down near where breakfast man is seated, her posture reminiscent of the lady, who is no lady, in the saloon painting. Except for an occasional slow blink, merely accentuating her adoration, her gaze is fastened upon him in trance-like worship. The message is clear.

"You are the god of ambrosia," it says. "You have power to bequeath, or to withhold." Not typically Cat you say? Only wait!

My husband commences chewing, heedless of his obsequious subject. A second magic act and the chair beside him is tout-de-sweet occupied by fat, fuzzy grayness, lying low. Hippo-like, two pointy ears and wide prehnite eyes slowly come into view above the surface of the countertop.

"Minnie!"

The ears and eyes quickly submerge. Presently another body periscopes up; the paw begins its search. Feeling blindly, it snakes its way toward the cottage cheese carton. A claw hooks the lid, lying near the open container. Cautiously it draws its prey toward the edge.

"Minnie!" Padded import thumps the floor. "Okay, for gosh sakes. Here!" he tosses a morsel of bacon.

With another wave of the wand, the lowly minion is suddenly transformed into Your Royal Highness. "Hm-m-m-mph! Don’t try and kid me!" she sniffs at the offering. "This is not the food for the gods you led me to believe it was. This is garbage. Pure garbage."

Scratch, scratch! She is intent. Invisible litter now covers the mess. Neck arched and tail aloft, she stalks from the presence of her subjects.

"Home. I’ll go home. And I’ll think of some way to get mine back. After all… tomorrow is another day."