Peanut Butter and Toast

Toast’s mum smiled down at us, a patronizing glitter written in her gaze. It was the type of smile that only a mother could bestow upon two four-year-old boys who knew that they had done something she wouldn't entirely approve of, and displayed the knowledge that they had allegedly done something that would later cause her malignant thoughts, even to such a small degree as the disappointment in a child.

But, still, my point exceeds the limits of your mind.

Think that one over.

“John…Sam… Where’s Sir Kensington Jenkins?”

“Who?”

The tuxedo cat chose that precise moment to waddle into the room, tail flirting at the air as his tummy threatened to graze against the floor as it swayed. His paws were the only thing delicate about him, other than the appearance of his tail and tongue, which casually frisked about his lips as though it was cleaning away the remains of a fattening breakfast. His limping pace, or however you chose to describe it, as he favoured neither side for his weight, could be likened unto the awkward walk of a duck, rear swinging to and fro with a facetious air to the movement.

He was, after all, a rather flippant cat with a demeanor about him that tended to state, or try to state: “I’m better than you, slave.”

Mrs. Caldwell’s exclamation of laughter was long lived, causing for Toasty and I to exchange small, childish smiles as we made our way toward the dining table, which we were to reserve as the site of our, well, dining of breakfast. Or brunch. Would early lunch please you and your condescending mannerisms of patronizing the poor Brit who can’t keep his words? Oh, forget it.

Sir Kensington Jenkins followed closely behind us, eager for the scraps we may drop for him and his entertainment (and post-breakfast snack), yowling daintily as he fought to maintain his balance on the perfectly level hardwood floor.

Ah, the spectacle sure was a sight to behold, his fat little body stuffed into a pink dress from the closet of Melanie, Sam’s baby sister. His ears peaked out from the sun hat, holes having been cut into the faux straw. Blue, gold, orange, lime green, and white paint decorated his once elegant black and white coat, matting the fur to his skin, which was, no doubt, uncomfortable for the over-fed, two-year-old tom cat.

Taking a bite of my honey and toast sandwich, I smiled at my best friend. When we high-fived, our grubby, sticky, and painted hands stuck together.

Just like we would.