[m i a o w] the cat

When we got home yesterday, I put the kettle on to make tea.

B: You didn’t eat that whole packet of chocolate biscuits last night. Did you?
M: No, no. Of course not. I just put the ones that were left in a bag in the fridge.
B: Thank god.
[I promptly forget my chocolate biscuit craving - now I know they’re safe - and decide to eat a cinnamon doughnut that is in a tin in the cupboard.]
B: Argh! Argh!
M: [barely lifting an eyebrow; assuming I’ve seen a cane toad, walked into a spiderweb, left my phone in the rain etc. etc.] What?
B: There’s fucking ANTS in the TIN all over the DOUGHNUTS. [Pokes further into the tin.] And they’ve savaged my Ryvitas. That’s it.
[The words ‘that’s it’ are said in unison with me tossing the ant-invaded tin as far as I can from the back steps into the garden. M starts laughing hysterically.]
M: You’re Homer! You’re Homer!
B: [Muttering darkly] Yeah. That’s right. I’m living Homer’s nightmare.
[I make the tea, savagely stir in the milk, and start poking around in the fridge.]
B: M! Where in the fridge did you put the chocolate biscuits? I can’t find them.
[M’s giggling stops abruptly. I can hear him backing away from the house with sneaky, treacherous little steps.]
M: Um…
B: [Shrieking] M! Tell me. Tell me you weren’t just putting off the inevitable by saying you hadn’t eaten all the biscuits. Tell me that they’re in the fridge.
[M shakes his head mutely, and speaks very very softly.]
M: I. Ate. Them. All.
[I kick something and flounce into the study with my tea. M drives into town for some Tim Tams. Later that night he eats six of them, guzzles a bottle and a third of red wine, eats pasta, jelly, chocolate and awakes in riotously good humour. It just doesn’t seem right.]