“I standing right here, right HERE,” Sue will exclaim, Atticus up on his back feet, head in the sink lapping up whatever soaking pot or post-dinner plate he may find there. He slowly gets down, no remorse each time, over the past three years he’s lived with us. None. He will even lick hot pans on the top of the stove.
|Me on the porch, those eyes willing me to spill from my plate.|
One cannot eat in peace in this house without an eye on the kitchen, so Sue installed this, made out of a street find, a discarded baby cradle:
If I eat in my breakfast chair facing the garden, I have eight eyes on me, plus an ample drooler. George shivers, Chibi and Wren try to get in my lap with pleading eyes and feet up on the edge of the chair, and Atticus heavy breathes just too damn close to my plate.
|They all want my plate (quesadilla). The drooling is starting on the big guy. That's my pink toe peeking out, cross-legged.|
I have trained no one. But I will complain anyways.
I want them to intuit, and then remember, by repetition, that I do not want to give them any of my egg sandwich. Do crumbs fall to the floor? (Do I love naps? Same answer.)
|If they could get on the counter, the chihuas would be as happy as this octopus.|
It's all about size, the food cruising advantage. The tiny ones would totally get in the sink or up on the stove to lick things, if they could.