Frances the cat has become rather demanding in the past few years, constantly chirping (yes, she chirps) for scraps while we eat. So, on the weekend, our climbing plans washed away with the rain, we decided to have a traditional Thanksgiving meal at home. (Sidenote: A few years ago, an Acadienne transplanted to Quebec told me that she didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, nor should any good Quebecois, because it was an “English” holiday, and we were subjugating ourselves if we observed it. I’m sure my 86-year-old grandmother would have been surprised by that little bit of information.) So, we go buy a turkey, and after getting over the sticker shock, pick up the rest of the ingredients for a proper white-trash meal (broccoli/cauliflower/Kraft cheddar and Ritz crackers dish? Lemon Jell-O with pineapple and carrot salad? I rest my case).
Set up the table, carve the turkey (note to self: make sure you cook the turkey breast-side up for the last while), and put some turkey aside for the feline.
We’re enjoying the meal, the cat is just chomping away at the meat, etc. Clean up a bit (now that requires some resolve), pop in the Amazing Race (it freakin’ rocks!), and settle in for the evening.
Look down, and Frances is completely passed out. I mean, she’s not moving a muscle. She’s in the complete throes of Morpheus. Sweetness. Who knew tryptophan had such an effect on cats? We go to bed around midnight, and I have to go back to the living room to get the cat, who’s lying comatose on the sofa. She actually let us sleep in peace until almost 6 this morning.
*Comment caught on tape of Buffalo Bob [I think] at the end of a Howdy Doody show.