At Home in a Chinese Restaurant

“If we were going to eat one of the animals, who whould we eat first?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe Eddie.”

“I don’t know.  He’s old.  He probably wouldn’t taste too good.  And he’s a meateater.  I think we should eat Frankenstein.  She’s a cat, and more of a vegetarian type.”

“There is that.  Vegetarians DO taste better, generally.  But she doesn’t have a lot of meat.  We’d get a lot further with the dog.”

We were both awake hours later.  Around 2 a.m.  And had been for an hour or so.  After Frankenstein had enjoyed a late-night rage against the horrible kitty-life-destruction machine by knocking plants over, scratching the new sofa, tearing through the house, claws scraping, meowling in that I’m-all-alone-in-the-world-and-terrified way kittens have. 

We said not a word to each other, silent in our sleepless misery.  Until.

“I think we should eat Frankenstein first.”