Sunday, October 21, 2012

Dogs Find Pancakes Acceptable as Food for to be Eating

Hello! Maybe you remember me and my teeth that stick out of my face and my head when I'm happy and when I'm superbusy smelling food because anytime there is food cooking my nose wakes up like there's a little doggy inside it and now it's morning morning morning!

Like when I can smell pancakes cooking!

Exhibit A: Evidence that there are in fact pancakes cooking. I will not disclose to you, dear reader, my identity, but perhaps you can guess who this is. Do you see these pancakes delicate and miniature? They are, friend, an aberration called Dogs' Pancakes. A thing which apparently exists in this unjust prison referred to as a house.

Sometimes the morning dawns syrup rich and sweet; I smell pancakes cooking and imagine them against my tongue. The softness of the flour. If I had hands, I could make some pancakes for all of us, but I don't - I have these paws which condemn me to the garden-of-no-self-made-pancakes-or-any-other-food-unless-you-count-lizards.

I could weep. I really could. And while the thought skitters into my brain that maybe MR's poisoning us or these cakes were dropped off by the mailman/maulman, I know in my heart they are made with flour, sugar, baking powder, vanilla, salt, and that when I press them to the roof of my mouth, I will know a fundamental and final kind of joy.

Exhibit B: Evidence that the prison guard and her boyfriend prepped and served, made ready and delicious these cakes for the dogs only and on purpose. My rage is an unquiet heat rising through my blood; it sings jealous songs in ear splitting frequency, much like the prison guard's voice when she's "singing" a song at the out-of-tune piano and all I want, reader, is sleep, and maybe pancakes.

Reprieve. Freedom. I crave these like the dogs must pancakes. I taste them like the saliva pooling in my throat.

One thing in the world I want is to be eating all every pancakes with my own mouth not someone else's mouth not someone else tasting it for me all on my own taste buds getting smooshed in between my teeth my chomping down on them for some long amounts of time hopefully many times in a row and with syrup on top of them I love sugar and some people say dogs can't eat wheat but they never met me and my super stomach which can eat anything I want it to all I have to do is be polite and just say hey tummy tum eat this because I want to eat it and then I do!

Exhibit C: The most damning of the four. Note the prison guard's boyfriend, absolutely complicit. These are criminals most cruel, most odious in nature. I cannot fathom how I came to be here, trapped within this poured concrete, drooling onto student papers, cowering in shame from the intensity of my own covetous nature. Give me, please friend, some of these cakes! What must a cat do to be deemed pancake-worthy? Let me die now, dear God, that I might no longer suffer the contempt all in the prison seem to hold me in.

Exhibit D: More evidence. The dogs, slobbering. Pancakes, eaten. And Luco?

Alone, of course. Hungry.

But me, Lucy, I'm also hungry for more. One pancake is the same as none once it is eaten.

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