Don and I are working to break her of this habit. “Look at your sisters!” we say. “Note how they are most decidedly not trying to crawl over under our elbows that they might stick their faces in our plates!”
“First of all,” Esme replies, “I’m adopted. Secondly, foodfoodfoodfoodfoodfoodfoodfood! *snarfle*”
It’s an ongoing struggle.
I get up early for work. I need to leave the house by six a.m. - quarter past at the latest - to get to work on time (read: at least five minutes early, ‘cause that’s how I roll). Now then. This morning: I’d already put together the day’s lunch; now all I needed was to make a sandwich that would suffice for breakfast and mid-morning snack, and all would be well. Early morning construction of the sandwich takes a bit longer than the same process at a more reasonable hour. Still, I toasted the whole wheat bagel, sliced red onion and tomato, cracked open the tub of sprouts and set to work compiling a turkey and swiss masterpiece.
Y’know how, every now and then, there are signs? Portents of the doom to come? My portent was mayonnaise. (Hush. I like mayo, in moderation. Don’t judge me.) I made the mistake of carrying it back to the refrigerator as I was replacing the lid. Somehow, that operation went awry, and the next thing I knew the mayonnaise jar was on the floor, sans lid, contents flung about the kitchen like that android ‘blood’ from Aliens. Naturally, Esme came rushing in to offer her assistance. I shooed her away (unsuccessfully) and then turned back to my beautiful sandwich. I wrapped it in foil and popped it into the cloth bag that already held my water, mug, box of tea and salad. Off to brush my teeth then, and when I returned to the kitchen not two minutes later...
The horror! Foil lay gaping open. Sprouts had rained down upon the better part of the kitchen floor, punctuated here and there with slivers of tomato and purple-hued onion. And right in the center of it all, crouched over half of a turkey-laden whole wheat bagel like a mountain lion over the carcass of a poor, slender deer, was Esme. Shoulders hunched, tail puffed to heretofore unseen levels, she was growling at a surprised Isabeau. “Miiiiiiiinnnnnne!” she snarled.
“...the.... fuck!” I managed.
Louder than I realized, because seconds later I heard Don’s sleepy voice from the bedroom. “What’s the matter!?”
“Our kitten ate my damned sandwich!” I snapped, scooping the culprit out of the way and gathering the poor remains of my masterpiece. Naturally, she dove back to protect what remained of her
I set to making another sandwich (you know this one wasn’t ever going to be as good) and finally left for work a good fifteen minutes after my go-time.
Before I left, I tried to find Esme to make sure she was all right. After all, it was the first time I’ve yelled at her... and she was nowhere to be found. Oh, kitty manipulation: she’s naughty, but manages to make me feel terrible by being all hiding and pathetic.