Rolling the Grape

I nudged a plump purple grape that had rolled near the base of the kitchen counter. When I gave it a soft tap with both paws, it wobbled, then zipped across the slick floor tiles with a quiet whir. I gave an eager hum and waddled fast behind it, my round tummy bouncing with every hurried step. It bumped against the shiny metal leg of a stool, spun in a lazy circle, and stopped right in a bright patch of sunlight. Sitting down flat on the tiles, I scooped the smooth, sweet-smelling fruit right into my lap.