Charlemagne, the Bean Licker.

Walking through the door this evening, I was greeted by fierce little hunter with eyes askance, questioning, "Um, where's mom?" A prompt fur stroke and -- more importantly -- a treat, and the questioning was reduced to, "No really, where is Texas? Is that where my tiger cousins live? You know, they say that everything is bigger in Texas."

Well, except of course, for Presidents' brains.

Charlie says: "I am suspicious of you. Do you have treats? Where's mom? No really, do you have treats? Yum. Okay, I like you now."

Of course, cats aren't normally known for their love of literature (Dr. Seuss was a blatant misrepresentation, apparently. Who knew cats don't really wear hats?), but this gift seemed to touch Charlie today, given his occasional nickname. Usually, Charlie has more 'prowl' in him than 'prowess' with words, but then again, he does have his own blog, for which he popped up onto the chair opposite to update a little while ago. Then, he followed me to the back room and leapt up beside me to keep me company. Or to get some more attention. It's gotta' be the treats.

A quick bean-lick and Charlie was feline fine. Tongue out, stalking the troublesome beanus waximus, native North America and now early extinct (for the season). The poor bean didn't stand a chance. Tongue marks, found all over the victim. He was only three days old. The purr-fect crime. By a whisker.

He's had a good pet, some dinner, is drooling all over the place and just gave me the belly after pacing around me in circles on the bed. And now, he is sitting inside my bag. But he misses mom.