A Sausage Feast for Potato

My snout nudged the shiny red clip closer to my garden potato under its red napkin. It was banquet time. I lined up the clip neatly beside the lumpy brown curve, stepping back with fierce pride. But wait. Absolute silence fell over the corner. Potato did not take a single bite. Utter heartbreak hit my chest, collapsing my front legs into a tiny folding heap of sorrow. Then, immediate rage! Why be rude to smoky gifts? I gave the clip a rapid smack with my right paw, sending it spinning into a chair leg. Clack! Now I am staring at both of them, totally normal, completely bread.