Kitty, Kitty, Kitty

I stewed one of Karin's chickens overnight. That always makes me immensely popular with the cats. They smooch my legs. They look at me with loving eyes. They proclaim that they are the BEST kitties and surely love me so much that they deserve for the chicken to be dropped on the floor. Not the whole chicken?? Well, okay, they'll settle for bits. Not bits of chicken either?? Can we at least lick the pot when you're done?? Please? We're such GOOD GOOD kitties!

The one who was begging last night (the older one) happened to be unavailable when I was picking off the meat this morning. So we called, "Rosie, Rosie, Rosie." It has a different sound from "Kitty, Kitty, Kitty" which is the call to the older cat, our huntress. (Of course, by now they're beginning to learn to come when the other is called ... so as to be able to stick your nose into her business bowl.

Maggie always asks about why I didn't call "Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." I try to intercept the question and hush her, because no matter how quietly you say those magic words, the cats will hear and come a-runnin'. So we've taken to using the abbreviation "KKK" for the magic words. For me and the older kids, those letters still bring to mind the Ku Klux Klan, but I imagine it won't be long before my first thought on hearing KKK will be something to do with greedy cats and stewed chicken and/or roast turkey.

Can you even imagine what my kids are going to do when they see "KKK" on a CLEP test or a college history exam?