Mr. Ferguson has developed a vexing habit of jumping up on the dinner table, owing to his passion for Parmesan cheese, which he clearly believes is present and being kept from him even if I have served an Asian stir-fry for the evening meal. He has spent a full five minutes (if not prevented) trying to get something out of the cheese mouli; I expect him to develop opposable thumbs fairly soon.
Tonight, after I had prepared the salad, I kicked back in the easy chair while the Engineer was finishing with some mushrooms and enjoyed a pleasant moment with Fergie in my lap, Until I detected a moistness on his hindquarters — aaack — but then realized that said moistness whiffed, not of cat pee (Mr. Ferguson is immaculate, for one thing) but of the savory brine in which marinated artichokes are packaged.
Had he sat in the salad? He has certainly been known to eat salad.
No [phew], I had simply splashed a bit of artichoke on the table while making it, and there he had ensconced himself in hopes of Parmesan.
I suppose we could lock him upstairs at dinner time every night, but he’s too lovable.
Sixteen Tons 