The Cappuccino Plan

She drank it all?

I had devised a plan to block Joan’s exit from the couch, to make her my prisoner, at least, until she was sufficiently saddened by my mournful glance, my longing gaze at her luscious cup of morning cappuccino, to give in and share.

Usually she gives me three fingers of cappuccino foam--first, the index finger; then, the middle finger; then, the ring finger. Then she says, "Good dog. That's all. The rest is mine." Don’t think I’m not grateful, but I want more. How I love coffee, especially morning cappuccino. And, really, Joan makes enough to meet the caffeine needs of an entire family.

So, the minute she sat down with her cappuccino, I would park myself between the couch and the coffee table, taking care to lie down on her slippers. Joan would be stuck on the couch until I relented, and I would refuse to relent until she gave me a few more luscious dabs of cappuccino foam.

But, this morning, she figured out that she can simply step over me. And, she can do it without slippers!

Very clever, Joan. Very clever, indeed. I’ll have to come up with a better plan.

Best wishes, Juno.