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I am the master of the games that you will hardly ever play
Our cats have a sweet tooth.
Two nights ago, I was working in my office when I heard stealthy little rustlings in the kitchen. It didn't sound like cats playing in a paper bag. I went into the kitchen to make sure it was not suddenly, horribly mice.
It was not mice. It was cats. Two cats on the kitchen counter where I had left the last sliced rectangle of honeycake wrapped in aluminum foil for later. One cat had its head inside the foil, busily eating. Rustle, rustle. I didn't even see if it was Autolycus or Hestia; I said firmly, "NO!" and pulled the one cat off the honeycake while the other made its escape from the kitchen and vengeance.
The cake was . . . still mostly a rectangle. The delicious honey-soaked crust was missing. There were little fang marks along the edges. I couldn't tell if it was the work of one curious little cat or two, but the miscreant(s) had a healthy appetite.
(We got a second honeycake from my parents at break-fast of Yom Kippur last night. This one is not being kept anywhere cats can get near it.)
Tonight, I was working in my office when I heard noises suggesting a cat on the dining room table. Day before yesterday, I had brought home some lemongrass ginger macarons from Boston Bonbon—Dave's was selling them, with the baker offering samples. They were exquisite. I ate one,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel ate one, the cats pounced on the plastic container and scuffled over it until it popped open and ferreted out the broken pieces of a third; we closed the container firmly and put it on the dinner table, where cats are not allowed to go. Time passed. A fourth macaron disappeared by human intervention. And then tonight the container was open again. There was one macaron left inside. I said to Rob, "Did you eat another macaron . . . ?"
We found the pieces. Some of the pieces. The ginger-flecked, lemon-yellow outer meringue, not the chewy center. Scattered on the floor between the table and the hutch. Rob took a picture, although in the low light they are indistinguishable from shattered corn chips. A little cat came up to nose around them hopefully as Rob adjusted his phone. [edit: See comments for photographic evidence!] I expect we will never see that chewy center again, unless someone gets sick from all the sugar.
Our cats really do not mooch a lot of human food. They like goat's milk, but it is apparently the Platonic form of cat's milk after actual cat's milk and I was prepared for it. They show a great deal of interest in food while we're cooking it, but they don't really try to get it from us afterward. They are notably, totally indifferent to seafood.
I would not say they're indifferent to desserts, no.
Two nights ago, I was working in my office when I heard stealthy little rustlings in the kitchen. It didn't sound like cats playing in a paper bag. I went into the kitchen to make sure it was not suddenly, horribly mice.
It was not mice. It was cats. Two cats on the kitchen counter where I had left the last sliced rectangle of honeycake wrapped in aluminum foil for later. One cat had its head inside the foil, busily eating. Rustle, rustle. I didn't even see if it was Autolycus or Hestia; I said firmly, "NO!" and pulled the one cat off the honeycake while the other made its escape from the kitchen and vengeance.
The cake was . . . still mostly a rectangle. The delicious honey-soaked crust was missing. There were little fang marks along the edges. I couldn't tell if it was the work of one curious little cat or two, but the miscreant(s) had a healthy appetite.
(We got a second honeycake from my parents at break-fast of Yom Kippur last night. This one is not being kept anywhere cats can get near it.)
Tonight, I was working in my office when I heard noises suggesting a cat on the dining room table. Day before yesterday, I had brought home some lemongrass ginger macarons from Boston Bonbon—Dave's was selling them, with the baker offering samples. They were exquisite. I ate one,
derspatchel ate one, the cats pounced on the plastic container and scuffled over it until it popped open and ferreted out the broken pieces of a third; we closed the container firmly and put it on the dinner table, where cats are not allowed to go. Time passed. A fourth macaron disappeared by human intervention. And then tonight the container was open again. There was one macaron left inside. I said to Rob, "Did you eat another macaron . . . ?" We found the pieces. Some of the pieces. The ginger-flecked, lemon-yellow outer meringue, not the chewy center. Scattered on the floor between the table and the hutch. Rob took a picture, although in the low light they are indistinguishable from shattered corn chips. A little cat came up to nose around them hopefully as Rob adjusted his phone. [edit: See comments for photographic evidence!] I expect we will never see that chewy center again, unless someone gets sick from all the sugar.
Our cats really do not mooch a lot of human food. They like goat's milk, but it is apparently the Platonic form of cat's milk after actual cat's milk and I was prepared for it. They show a great deal of interest in food while we're cooking it, but they don't really try to get it from us afterward. They are notably, totally indifferent to seafood.
I would not say they're indifferent to desserts, no.
no subject
This is clearly why it is necessary to say "Yes! You're a cat!" so often to "cats". Otherwise they might revert to their true forms.
no subject
We haven't brainwashed anyone. It's only that "cat" is the closest applicable term for what we think we're raising.