A Starch Ceremony

I dragged the real garden potato across the kitchen threshold with sheer jaw power. Very heavy. Very distinguished. But then—disaster! A stray crumpled receipt fluttered from a chair rung and startled my left ear! I dropped the potato. Total outrage. I growled at the paper, gave it a vicious smack with my right paw, and immediately forgot why I was furious. To celebrate this victory, I pushed my potato right under the warm shadow of the dining chair, tucked my legs straight inside, and collapsed directly on top of it. Now we are two potatoes. Nobody can tell us apart.