This person I live with just looked down at me and started jabbering some mumbo-jumbo in a singsong voice that makes her sound like one of those "cat mommies" she swore she would never become. I was busy pivoting on my shapely bottom, delicately licking the sleek black fur of my right paw (the one I write with, but, oddly enough, not the one I shuffle cards or brush my teeth with), minding my own business, daydreaming about this weekend, when she'll be away for a few days and I'll have the whole palace (no, that's not a typo -- I mean palace, not just "place") to myself, and she started reaching down as if to rub my stomach a/k/a cause me to lose my balance and topple over like a Weeble that has finally fallen down. It took me a few seconds to decipher her prattle.
It was this: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, SHANA! HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!
Nine whole years? One for each of the lives I'm supposed to have? Wow!
And then I realized, well, this is all very well and good, but ... where's my cake? Where's the brouhaha and hullaballoo? Where's the mahi-mahi?
It's an anniversary, sure, but I'm not too happy!