The Trouble With Kibbles

Gilly has taken, in his later years, to making a Tribble noise when he is extremely happy or deeply moved.

Needless to say, this is an excellent development; a cherished combination of purr and song expressing contentment, love, joy and plea for more of same: more scratching, more spooning, more ear rubs.

Or today, for more pork with a sweet-hot crust of pomegranate molasses and Mongolian Fire Oil, more sesame-tamari broccoli and bok choy, and most of all, more of that unbelievably delicious and fragrant Thai soup my housemate made with coconut milk and chunks of chicken and carrots.

Gilly’s tastes of these things made him positively drunk with hope.

When there was no more, he paced. Fretted. Waxed maudlin with rosy memories of soupy moments just past. Followed me around with expressions of Tribble optimism and helpful suggestions about Tribble dietary needs.

This didn’t work.  He’d already had his supper. The leftovers were put away.  Heartless, I went back to my computer.

Rather than give in to woe, he started with the cookie-jar-poking technique, Tribbling loudly with each increasingly vigorous jab.

Somehow, he conveyed clearly, he was going to make more of that soup or pork manifest, possibly by getting me to lift the lid of the cookie jar, after which a wormhole would open between the fridge and the jar, it would fill with soup and porklets, and all would be well.

Canine Tribbles may well be Time Lords, and for Time Lords, all things are possible.



I opened it.

There was only kibble for my Tribble.

He’s now in bed, silent as a last alien on a lonely planet; remembering coconuts and contemplating eternity without them.

With depressing kibble-crumbs on his chin, evidence of cruel neglect.

I may or may not be able to get him to purr later.


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