Petty Fours and Galoshes

"Cat's don't wear galoshes."

"It was a petty four."

(Petty four?)

"Do you mean, metaphor?"

"Pardon my French. Metaphor. I dragged out that booster seat you call a dictionary."

"You mean that dictionary you call a booster seat."

"Whatever. I was looking up Simon the Beaver.

(Simon the Beaver?)

"The French existentialist."

"Do you mean, Simone de Beauvoir?"

"You complain when I say things in French, you complain when I say things in English."

"The burden of the existentialist, Trygg. Now, what does this have to do with galoshes?"

"Simone de Beauvoir is French. Simone de Beauvoir is an existentialist. I am not French. I am a cat. Ipso facto, I am a catalyst.

(A catalyst?)

"Which brings us back to petty fours."

I don't know why, but I get a bad feeling about this.

"Does this have anything to do with your rattling about in the kitchen in the middle of the night?"

"Middle of the night is comparative."

"Never mind."

"I made you petty fours. Come on. Let's go eat."

I follow Trygg into the kitchen. There I open up the fridge to find sandwiches on a plate covered in a napkin. Actually, it's one sandwich, crusts removed, cut into four. I take it out."

"Chicken salad and cress petty fours."

"Two each?"

I get that bewildered cat look.

"I am a cat. I don't eat sandwiches."

I serve Trygg the chicken on a plate. Hold the mayo. I pour myself a cup of tea.

"Would you like some tea?"

"I don't drink tea. I'm a cat.

I pour Trygg's water into one of the tea cups. I put his lunch down on the floor. I sit beside him. Trygg starts to unroll his napkin.

"Trygg?"

"Oops."

"We say grace."

I'm sitting there eating the petty fours when my wife comes in. (In French it's petit fours, cakes not sandwiches, but I'm not going to split hairs with Trygg after his gracious gesture.)

"Aw...that is so precious."

My wife looks at us all gooey.

"I'm going out." She gives me a kiss. "This is so, so, you. Maybe I'll pick up something special for dinner. Just for the two of us--and Trygg.

My wife leaves.

Trygg looks at me.

"See? I'm a catalyst."

I still don't know what this has to do with galoshes. However, the chicken and cress sandwiches are delicious; and Trygg did cut the crusts off. He's not allowed to use the sharp knives so I don't know how he managed it. But I'm not complaining. I offer Trygg more chicken then pour myself another cup of tea and join Trygg back on the floor.

Even the cat winks =^.~=

Regards,

Slim

slimfairview@yahoo.com


Copyright (c) 2011 Slim Fairview