A Matter of Gravity and Scent

A rich, savory draft drifted right past my nose, and no cat could reasonably ignore an investigative duty of that magnitude. I mobilized. Paws padded across the cool linoleum straight toward the kitchen counter. A wooden cutting board sat high above, but down on the lower cabinet runner, someone had dropped a lone, toasted crouton. I reached out one paw, gave it a deliberate tap, and rolled it into a patch of light. Crispy. Aromatic. Utterly effortless. I decided to linger right beside it, keeping close watch in case any lasagna followed.