The Duchess of Yowl is perched atop her handmaiden, whiskers twitching as she dreams of tuna. The handmaiden is horizontal on the couch.
The television suddenly blares in the way commercials do; volume seventeen times louder than the program being watched.
The Duchess of Yowl springs straight up and swings on the chandelier by her claws.
DoY: WHAT the ever-loving DOG was that!
Me: I'm sorry Your Grace, I forgot to mute the commercial.
DoY: What is a commercial, and I am banning them from my royal residence.
Me: Commercials are like mini-tv shows that tell you about things you might need.
DoY: I need tuna.
Me: There are commercials for cat food.
DoY: Show me one.
Me: I can't summon them up at will, but I'll point out the next one, ok?
DoY: You are relentlessly useless most of the time, I'm sorry to say.
Me: I'm not useless when you want your ears scricched.
DoY: That's true. Scrich now.
Me: Of course your grace.
Serenity returns Chez Yowl.
Me: Here's a cat food commercial Your Grace. See, it's for Fancy Feast. You like that.
DoY: Who is that repulsive beast eating MY tuna?
Me: That cat's not repulsive, just...um...quite fuzzy.
DoY: Fuzzy? That is a walking hairball.
Me: What do you know about hairballs? You're so sleek you've slid off the couch more than once.
DoY: Don't change the subject. Why is Herr FuzzBall eating My Tuna?
Me: He's an actor. He does what the director, and producer, and stage manager tell him.
DoY: Are you sure that's not a dog in disguise?
Me: (looking closely) umm...no.
DoY: I still want tuna.
Me: I'd have to get off the couch, and leave you here without a warm lounging spot.
DoY: Cold or hungry. This is a paradox. What to do, what to do?
Me: Have you heard of Schrödinger’s Cat?
DoY: We are amused and not amused.