Haiku 21: “borrowed” from Thomas F. Wilson
31 May 2009 4 Comments
in Poetry Tags: Biff, dead bird, dog, Food, grape, haiku, Thomas F. Wilson
It’s strange that a dog
will eat a dead bird, but will
never eat a grape.
Just checking
26 Apr 2009 2 Comments
in Food, Strange Tags: dinner, Food, manager, meal, restaurant, strange people
A friend and I went out to eat last night. As we were finishing our dinners, a man in a nice suit walked up to our table and asked how our meals were. We told him the food was fine, thanks, and then he moved on to the next table and asked them the same question.
Two minutes later, a different man in a nice suit approached our table and asked us how our dinners were. Slightly confused, we told him the food was fine, thanks.
The second man was the manager of the restaurant. The first man was just some random guy walking around asking people how their meals were.
Kitty crack
17 Feb 2009 12 Comments
in Animals, Photos Tags: Bonnie, canned tuna, cat, Food, kitty crack
When it’s time for a normal meal, Bonnie will sit nicely beside her placemat, meowing gently as I pour a bit of food into her bowl.
If Bonnie has been especially sweet to me that day, I will give her a bit of canned tuna.
She knows the sound of the can opener, and the second I place it on the can, I hear her bounding in from whatever corner of the apartment she might be hiding in.
Badumbadumbadumbadum…
Unlike her normal meals, Bonnie does not sit politely whilst I dish out her snack. Rather, she will try to climb up my leg, meowing hysterically, reaching for the plate before I have even gotten the fish out of the can.
Somehow, I manage to get the plate to the floor without tripping over the cat. Bonnie quickly wolfs down the tuna, licking every last speck from the plate.
When she is finished, she turns to me, rubbing against my legs, purring violently. I pick her up, and she nuzzles against my chin, as if to thank me for my infinite kindness. She looks into my eyes and…
…and then the change happens. Her pupils suddenly dilate. She begins to squirm, so I let her down. Without warning she tears out of the kitchen.
Badumbadumbadumbadum…
While I go about my business, Bonnie runs back and forth across the length of the apartment. She leaps over chairs, she skids around corners, she attacks my sneakers. She lets out these weird meows in a timbre not usually emitted from her throat. She has become a wild cat, and no walls can contain her.
Badumbadumbadumbadum…
I try to ignore Bonnie as she races with wild abandon around me, but it can be difficult when she uses me as a springboard to fly across the living room onto the couch. At times like these I feel like I should sew her a little cape.
Finally, forty-five long minutes later, she is passed out on the floor beneath the coffee table. Her tuna high has worn off.
Canned tuna is like kitty crack.
say what?