Left Out in the Cold

Pettigrew and my husband have their own love language.  Peanut butter is their conversational lubricant of choice.

The other day while I was enjoying a mug of green tea for my afternoon pick-me-up, my husband wandered into the kitchen for a snack. On his heels came Pettigrew.

I invited Pettigrew over for some rubs, but his mind was elsewhere. 

When I called his name, he briefly glanced my way before zeroing back to his target. His entire body was alert and taut as a strung arrow, aimed at my husband. 

I was an irritant, a nuisance, an entity which he barely had the patience to acknowledge.

When I remarked on how superfluous I felt, my husband somewhat sheepishly shared that he and Pettigrew had “chatted” earlier in the day and apparently Pettigrew was eager to resume their colloquy.

The two proceeded to the refrigerator. 

From my angle, it was hard to tell who first identified the location of the peanut butter jar on the door shelf, but Pettigrew politely let my husband pick it up, unscrew the lid, and scoop out a generous dollop.

They spent several glorious minutes basking in their love language. I could just imagine Pettigrew savoring the smooth, silky mouth feel. The peanut-scented cloud surrounding them.

It ended with those distinctive smacking sounds that always happen when the peanut butter to liquid ratio in one’s mouth is out of whack and a sip of water is much needed.

They both seemed quite pleased with how the interaction had played out.