He's not normal. I swear he's not.
Sep. 9th, 2006 10:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperance...Or maybe I'm wrong, maybe all cats harbour a secret yearning for baked goods. The girls were fond of toast. Preferably buttered, and extra-preferably spread with Gentleman's Relish, but the dry bready crunchiness would always do on its own.
Barry, it transpires, hath a passion for croissants. His antennae are sensitive enough to detect the buttery flaky goodness through three layers of packaging, and his wrinkly-wet-walnut brain is smart enough not to be defeated by the zips on my bag. Which is why he had First Breakfast sometime in the night, and I was half a croissant short this morning.
(PS - yes, he still got Second Breakfast, undiminished. One does not diminish Barry's breakfast. He would sulk, for values of sulking that - well, you wouldn't want to go there.)
Barry, it transpires, hath a passion for croissants. His antennae are sensitive enough to detect the buttery flaky goodness through three layers of packaging, and his wrinkly-wet-walnut brain is smart enough not to be defeated by the zips on my bag. Which is why he had First Breakfast sometime in the night, and I was half a croissant short this morning.
(PS - yes, he still got Second Breakfast, undiminished. One does not diminish Barry's breakfast. He would sulk, for values of sulking that - well, you wouldn't want to go there.)