Care for Another Mousie Drumstick? or There’s No Accounting for Taste

Taking advantage of some I’m-running-out-of-money-and-need-to-get-back-to-work program or another, Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) has enrolled in school.

“What does this mean, though?” I ask her. “Does this mean I’ll no longer find your fuzzy butt soaking up any available pool of sun on the floor?”

Liza Bean, her back leg stretched out before her, thoughtfully pulls at one of her hind claws with her teeth. “I’m thure,” she says, her mouth full, “that I don’t know what you’re inthinuating.”

“I’m insinuating that you can barely be counted on to cover your own, shall we say, leavings, let alone get up and go to school every day.”

Liza Bean’s eyes widen – and then narrow – in shock. She lowers her leg delicately. “Such talk,” she scolds.

“OK, well, I’m sorry,” I say. She is right – when did I become so thoughtless? “So what did you sign up for? What’s the plan?”

Liza Bean yawns. “Accounting.”

I stare at her.

She yawns again, the hint of a smile playing across her tiny, adorably black lips. She regards me, deigns to elaborate. “You know. Accounting: you have two mice and I have one mice and how many of the legs will we be forced to eat once the good stuff is gone to ensure we’ve both had enough for dinner?”

Now it is my turn to squint. “That sounds nauseating.”

She closes her eyes and smiles. “Yes.”

“You’re playing with me, aren’t you?”

Eyes still closed, smile still on her lips: “Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me what classes you’re taking?”

Eyes still closed, smile disappears: “No.”

Moments later, there is the sound of light snoring. Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) is no longer taking questions.

Dang cat.