from Wendy Lyn Watson's Mysteries a la Mode
So I get it. I'm a cat. No one ever asks my opinion because, while I understand English, I can't speak it (and no one in this household speaks Cat).
Still, everyone tells me their deepest, darkest secrets . . . usually while weeping into my fur. If only I had a way of communicating with the big monkeys, I could set them all straight.
Take Tally. She dithered back and forth between Cal and Finn for months.
As big monkeys go, they're both solid. Cal helped me out when I had that unfortunate yarn incident, and when Bree makes meatloaf, he always slips me some. Once I heard him say something about the meatloaf tasting like drywall, but it tastes just fine to me. He's not much into petting me, but he looks out for my feline interests in that manly way of his.
|Sherbet the Wise|
Finn, on the other hand, is the cuddler. He knows right where to scratch my tummy ... you know the spot that makes you want to stretch your toes way out and flex your claws? No? Well, trust me, it's yummy, and Finn finds it every time. Oh, and he brought me a baggie of primo catnip for Christmas last year.
I guess that sums it up. Cal's the protector, Finn's the romancer. And if Tally would just ask, I could tell her who she needs. Because I know all of Tally's secrets. In other words, I know Tally. Maybe better than she knows herself.