Scene: early afternoon, lovely summerish day, Chez Yowl
A high pitched yowl of cinematic length unfolds such that foundations tremble, windowpanes shudder, and Thumbs, handmaiden to the Duchess, bolts upright from the couch so quickly she falls over.
DoY: I'm hungreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Me: [scrambling to regain footing] There's food in your dish.
DoY: That dish is filthy.
Me: It's your elevenses!
DoY: I require a clean dish.
Me: Ok! Ok! I'll put this in a clean dish
DoY: No. I do not want used food.
Me: Used food?
DoY: That is not fresh from the can.
Me: It's YOUR food. You're the one who ate it.
DoY: How do I know that?
Me: This is food for cats. You're the only cat here
DoY: I beg your pardon.
Me: Oh! Right. Sorry, I mean this is food for a Duchess. You're the only royalty here
DoY: Exactly my point. I know you want my food. How do I know you didn't put your flat-eared, sadly lacking in fur, whisker-less face into my dish?
Me: [at a complete and utter loss for words]
DoY: You know I'm right.
Me: [opens fresh can]
DoY: No, the other can.
Me: That's MY used food.
DoY: It smells like tuna.
Me: It is tuna. I made a tuna sandwich for lunch.
DoY: I want tuna.
Me: Used tuna?
DoY: Repurposed tuna. And some of that ice cream you're hiding in my freezer too.