Last night's supermoon reminded me of nothing less than an empty food bowl. While one might have expected me to have bayed at the stunning sight, the only yowls I let out were ones of hunger, after being woken from my early bedtime and dragged outside.
I couldn't help but be reminded of that sweet little kitten in Kevin Henkes'
Kitten's First Full Moon, who sees the moon and wants it, then thinks its reflection in the water is a bowl of milk (hey, wasn't that a
dog story to start with—remember, in Aesop's Fables, the dog sees the reflection of his bone in the water and is so greedy that as he opens his mouth to scoop up the supposed second bone, the real one falls into the drink). Anyway, Henkes' kitten finally laps up a real bowl of milk. I guess I can forgive Mr. Henkes for turning the dog into a kitten, him having won the Caldecott Medal for it and all.
A satisfying tale, perfectly done. But I digress.
I stumbled along the edge of the pond, bleary-eyed. Mom, always eager to see a natural event, woke practically everybody in the neighborhood, so I didn't have to do anything, voice-wise. However, when she tore our friends Carol and Don away from their pasta to see the trumpeted supermoon, I tried to insist they return to their dinner. They are so good-natured that they were not even deterred by my jumping on them, my paws over Don's shoulders in a weird kind of dance. So we all took in the supermoon, and then, properly awed, and after more than a decent interval, went home. In retribution for the interrupted sleep, I demanded several treats and a peanut butter bone.
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