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The Felon | |
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| O'Hara lay curled in his wicker basket, feigning sleep. If Frances had observed more closely she might have noticed the occasional flick of a yellow tail, and the tic of an orange ear. But notice she did not, and thus her special St. Patrick's Day dinner was doomed. Through slit lid, one green eye observed Frances season the beef brisket, then place it in a pan of hot fat. As the pungent aroma of searing meat filled the kitchen, one pink nose twitched in hungry anticipation. As Frances lifted the meat from the pan and placed it on a large platter, O'Hara decided the time had come for a diversionary tactic. He unfurled from his basket, yawning, stretching his lithe body. He sidled three times around his mistress" legs, then advanced to the open kitchen door and quietly slipped through. Once in the conservatory, with seeming nonchalance, he sidled to the asparagus fern hanging from a hook in one sunny corner. Stretching his marmalade neck upwards, he clamped his teeth around a low–hanging tendril and bit it off. He chomped for a few seconds, sat and waited a minute or so more, then sashayed into the living room. Once there, he proceeded to heave loudly several times before regurgitating his snack onto a particularly pristine section of the light beige rug. "Darn it, O'Hara, you've been into my plants again, haven't you?" As Frances rushed into the room, brandishing paper towel and spot remover. Mission accomplished, O'Hara scooted into the kitchen, hit the counter–top with one agile jump, and Frances" special St. Patrick's Day dinner became history.
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