Siena: Wagon. Tale!

It was distinctly two words, but why she had decided to tell the story of a wagon I couldn’t say.

Then I realized she was pointing at Penny (our tuxedo kitty).

I looked down at Penny, who was as usual miffed that she hadn’t been fed dinner yet, and how was any self-respecting prim cat, especially one of her advanced years, supposed to tolerate such indignities as this, and what kind of household are they running anyway that food isn’t in my bowl by 6 PM sharp any more, my goodness the state of service in my empire has deteroriated and I really will have to do something about these humans, they just don’t understand my needs.

Where was I?

Ah yes, Penny was flicking her tail back and forth for some reason (I’m not really sure why), and I realized Siena was in fact saying:

Siena: Wagging. Tail!

She later duplicated this astounding feat by pointing at Nalia’s tail when she (Nalia) was having her (Nalia’s, though sometimes it is Siena’s) dinner and happily wagging her (Nalia’s again) tail and said it again.

To cap off a really impressive–in her parents’ simple and easily impressed minds–24 hours, Siena this morning heard Nalia barking outside and said:

Siena: Nalia. In.

Which we did.

Thus inspired to advance Siena to the next stage of her culinary evolution, I bought a box of Cheerios. And I can say, without reservation or qualification, that Cheerios rock. I’d forgotten how small they are. She can down these things easily. So we spill a bunch on her tray, and watch her pound them into little bits (she likes pounding). Periodically she will manage to get one or two into her fist, and then begins the exercise to get the little inner-tube of oaty goodness into her mouth. She’s successful only about 30% of the time currently, and needs help putting them on her tongue when she fails and get frustrated.

She employs those little fangs of hers to cut them in half. Here we run into a problem. In Siena’s mouth-view of food, it seems to be that if a morsel is in her mouth yet outside the bounds of her teeth, then it’s better to let it languish on the periphery, shuffle down to her chin, and eventually fall to the tray or floor, than to try to scoop it up and swallow it. The practical upshot of which is that a good portion of Cheerios product that makes it into her mouth doesn’t actually get eaten.

Needless to say, the dog loves this entire process. The scorecard reads something like this: Dog-100, Siena-30.

P.S. I realize every other parent on the planet already knows about Cheerios. Nevertheless, it’s the little epiphanies of first-time parenthood that we are tracking here in the first place, so in the end, you just have to deal.

P.P.S. I need to remind myself to write a post about my grand unification theory of baby development and punctuated equilibrium.