Hairy Potter

I had my doubts about my cat’s alleged skill with the potter’s wheel, especially since no one had ever actually witnessed her using the thing. I just chalked it up to yet another whimsical late night eBay purchase.
One afternoon she served me red grapes in a cobalt blue bowl I’d never seen before. I marveled at its exquisite craftsmanship and wondered why anyone would want to sell it on eBay.
“Oh, Shana, this is quite a find,” I said.
“Mew like?” she said.
“Oh, I do. I do. Do you mind my asking how much you paid for it?”
“Not a red cent,” she said.
“Oh, so you didn’t pay, but I did,” I said, playing along, lifting my chin and looking at her sideways. “PayPal or credit card?”
I allow her one extravagance on my dime each month. I was a bit surprised she hadn’t bought one of her pet fashion items, a vintage cloche she had been watching to see if anyone had yet met the reserve.
“Neither,” she said. “I made it.”
I hesitated before asking, “How is it possible to spin a bowl if you don’t have thumbs?” I hated to be cruel, especially since she had just given me a gift.
“What good are thumbs except for shoving them up your ass, a skill for which you are particularly well-suited,” she said, her eyes narrowed to green slits. “You don’t ‘spin’ a bowl. You ‘throw’ it.”
Mew-ch&#233!