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Meins of Minnie
by Janice Cartwright
10/02/06
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Our home, very early morning. I'm in my PJ's, standing at the stove. Bacon sizzling in the pan wafts its aroma all through the house. "Breakfast!" I warble out. As if by conjuration our beloved cat Minnie, not there two seconds ago, suddenly is.

Her master appears and seats himself for eggs and toast. Usually my girl, Minnie chooses a spot near my husband's chair and parks her carcas. Though I have not a clue how she accomplishes such a feat, at this moment her normally bushy coat is slick-down and gleaming for all its worth. She positions her head with an upward, sidewise tilt toward the food partaker, fixes her gaze upon him in trance-like worship.

He picks up his fork; she settles back into a more relaxed pose. With an occasional slow and deliberate blink, she accentuates her adoration. The message is clear.

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

The Adored One commences to chew, totally ignoring this wing of the masses. "Whoosh!" Beside him the formerly empty chair is now occupied by fuzzy gray static. Lying low kitty is set to crowd the issue.

Hippo-like, two pointy ears and prehnite amber eyes come slowly into view above the surface of the countertop.

"Minnie!" It's no-nonsense, wholly masculine tone.

The eyes and ears quickly submerge. There is an interval and a different body part takes their place. Feeling blindly, the paw begins its search. 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!" This time tenor is even more emphatic. She hits the floor with a well-padded, but definite thump.

"Okay, for gosh sakes. Here!"

Head of State has tossed a morsel of bacon. She sniffs at the offering and I know it's signal for a truly astounding transformation: toady is about to turn monarch. Before you can say 'royal highness,' a revolution will be fought and won. Bootlicker will metamorphose into Miss Condescension.

"H-m-m-mph! Don't try and kid me! This is not food for the gods as you led me to believe. This is garbage. Pure garbage."

"Scratch, scratch." With a deliberate air she starts to pull invisible litter over the mess. Tail aloft she stalks from the presence of her inferiors.

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





If you died today, are you absolutely certain that you would go to heaven? You can be! TRUST JESUS NOW

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