The Butter Sled

I leaped onto the woven placemat just in time to witness an intolerable breakfast catastrophe: a square pat of golden butter was recklessly tobogganing down the warm slope of a fresh pancake, careening straight toward the clean linen runner like an ill-mannered urchin on a grease slide! Such dairy anarchy simply cannot be tolerated in a civilized morning dining room. Keeping my pink rose stem tucked firmly against my flank, I braced my hind trotters against the rim of a ceramic butter dish. With a stern reprimand regarding its spineless lack of poise and two resolute shoves of my plush snout, I steered the melting delinquent straight back to the stack's steaming apex. Now it dissolves with proper symmetrical dignity.