Mother is eating boiled peanuts and attempting to read her new novel (The Leper’s Bell, the latest in the Sister Fidelma series, which is about a nun who solves murders in ancient Ireland. She is beyond hooked.).
I want those boiled peanuts. I want to eat them, to play with them, to steal them from her and take them to my secret hiding spot (where I keep all my purloined goods, like my vast collection of white plastic caps).
I tentatively extend my pee-paw into the bag of peanuts and select one, curling my paw into a hook and drawing my prey outwards. Mother glances over– I look like Winnie the Pooh scooping honey from a pot. She takes offense to my nasty little paws in her food, and removes the bag from my proximity.
Momentarily content with my one ill-gotten peanut, I begin to bat it around. Of course, I have placed the peanut on Mother’s open book, which she set down when she picked up the bag. I leave peanut-juice all over pages 40 and 41 as I swat my prize around, pondering its various properties.
Its exterior is yielding, yet unrelentingly difficult to crack. Salty in flavor, the brine is delicious. Mother picks up the peanut and begins to open it. I watch, eyes wide with anticipation. What sweet fruit lies within this shell? What treasure will be mine upon its opening?
Oh, that. That’s not exciting. I don’t like that. I sniff the peanut, disappointed. However, I am never one to turn down food, so I attempt to eat it anyway. After a moment, I spit it out onto Mother’s book, leaving yet another stain upon its pages. This time it was open to the title page.
I do not want these peanuts. Or rather, I do not want THAT peanut. I extend another paw into the bag, hoping my next acquisition will be more pleasing. Mother promptly closes the bag, denying me the boiled peanuts I so desperately crave for whatever reason.
Enraged, I take my fury out on her book, which is lying beside me on the bed. I seize the pages in my jaws– as a hardback, it is quite easy to grasp– and begin to gnaw. The top-right corners of the first 10 or so pages feel my fury as I bite and tear, leaving the marks of my little needle-teeth to forever serve as a monument to the wrath of Franklin.
When my initial tantrum yields no results, I redirect my rage… this time to its cause. MOTHER.
I wail, a raspy yodel of loss and fury: “Bitch, gimme dem peanuts!”. Grabbing her hand with my claws, I begin to chew. I do not rend her flesh, for she is my Most Favoritest Person Ever, and I seek only to cause discomfort. I would never bite the hand that feeds me…. not hard, anyway.
She thinks this is but a game! She laughs and extracts her hand from my grasp. This serves only to enrage me further. I launch a second wave of assault, this time using my back feet to kick as I bite. Now she blows air into my face, an action that I despise. I release her hand, returning to the book as an outlet for my righteous fury.
It is not enough… she still will not give me the boiled peanuts I desire. I claw and kick at her leg, catching my sharp claws in the denim of her jeans. Still no response… curse this fabric for protecting her vulnerable flesh!
Oh no! In all my kicking and swiping, I have gotten my claw STUCK in the USB port on Mother’s laptop!! It is not the first time this has happened. How I love and hate this machine!
My predicament causes me to reflect upon society’s reliance on computers, like infants to the teat. Truly, do they not have ALL our claws trapped within their USB ports? And yet, dear readers, I must use computers to voice this very thought… the bitter irony!
Mother notices my distress and attempts to extract my claw. No success. I am trying to yank my paw back, which only causes me pain, as my talon is firmly hooked in the port. I yowl in horror. Mother, having done this before, expertly lifts the laptop, angling it so as to allow me to deftly remove my claw from the computer’s possession.
Defeated, I sullenly withdraw to the foot of the bed, sulking and wrathfully swatting at Mother’s exposed feet.
Nay! I shall not be exiled in this way! With a primal howl, I launch myself at Mother’s legs. Gurgling with fury, I claw my way up to her lap, where I spitefully bite the corner of the computer, only to be shooed most rudely.
Staring directly into Mother’s eyes, I let loose another threatening yowl. Like a lion on the savanna, I slowly stalk towards her, body crouched low, eyes rippling with harmful intent.
She pauses; I strike! The strength of my wild ancestors is revealed as I pounce upon her hand, gnawing and kicking with all my might. Still, I do not harm– it is only my intent to demonstrate my ferocity and ensure that the peanuts are turned over to me post-haste.
Again, she breathes in my face! I recoil, then strike once more– a quick, snakelike bite to the wrist. She picks me up and squeezes my ample belly. She scratches my back. I begin to purr.
Wait– what is happening? I roll on my back, exposing my fluffy tum-tum to be petted. I cannot be defeated like this! I stretch languidly, yawning as I extend my arms. No! I am Franklin, the Furry Fury, Devourer of Peanuts! I won’t be distracted by kisses and squeezes! And yet, I find myself stretching out beside Mother, kneading her side in contentment. Damn; foiled again!
I quietly purr, allowing Mother to return to her tooth-marked, brine-stained novel. As I drift into peaceful slumber, I feel a gentle hand tapping me. I crack open one eye.
Mother is offering me a peanut.
