Cry Over Spilled Caviar

Whilst sitting in my Herman Miller chair, you know the one that adjusts to every conceivable position and has, of course, the optional lumbar pack, overlooking Central Park in my modest penthouse suite, pondering the plight of the ever-present poor, I was struck by a sudden urge; dare I say need, for a bit of caviar.

I make a great effort not to be elitist so I never, never buy the best caviar. As I rummaged through the refrigerator I found a jar of Romanoff Black Lumpfish Caviar. I bought this at a local supermarket close-out, so it can't be awfully good. Surely I am right about this.

Even though a person of my stature has eaten much caviar, I have never developed any expertise about it so I ate some with no sense of whether or not it was special. However, I foolishly used a silver knife instead of a silver spoon and spilled a rather large number of eggs on the counter.

Since I have cats, not pedigreed mind you, I was presented with two issues:

One; the cats walk all over every surface after visiting the litter box. (True they are not pedigreed, but they are fastidious)

Two; Cats think that anything related to fish is somehow about them. So I had to clean up quickly and I couldn't salvage any of the eggs for myself. I would have been glad to allow the cats to eat them, but, surely you can see, that would begin an endless cycle of expectation which no right-minded person would want to precipitate.

Here I sit in my Herman Miller chair, overlooking Central Park from my modest penthouse suite, pondering the plight of the ever present poor. I have learned my lesson; from now on, I will be sure to use my silver spoon instead of my silver knife to eat my not-first-class caviar and keep my cats pure.