When I told this story around the lunch table at the hospital in the mountains by the lake, Dr. H. blew coffee out his nose. The brief tale itself involves coffee, and this story belongs to Riley, the departed gray tabby.
Riley liked to sit up on the kitchen counters, and there was nothing we could do about it, so we just got used to it. One morning my spouse had placed her cup o' joe not far from him. She had turned away for a moment, then got her cup and resumed the morning caffeinization.
Later she recalled that the coffee tasted a little bitter.
As she neared the bottom of the cup, the bitterness increased, and then she noticed the partially-digested, but still-formed, bits of cat food kibble marinating in the bottom of her java. She then did what we all would have done in a similar situation: she spewed.
Apparently Riley, the ever-sly one, had discreetly woofed up a mouthful of kibble with which to flavor my spouse's coffee. His version of those trendy Torani or Davinci syrups you see lined up like soldiers behind coffee-house counters.
Good kitty! Licking his paws, with a "why are you all looking at me like that?" expression.
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