Inside Casa la Feve, we speak our own language. The pussy (the furry female four-footed one) is The Button, my spouse is The Smotch, and in general, we are very fond of the suffix, -age.
Boobage, for example. And snackage. (Sometimes the two are one in the same. 😉 )
So we do not have pillows on the bed in our master (Mistress?) bedroom. Instead, we have pillage.
Pillage.
Which is especially appropriate, I think, because I tend to steal pillage from my Smotch.
Most recently, at 2:13am.
Hmmm… I need more pillage, I thought to myself. So I’ll just steal the one under Smotchy’s head.
3…
2…
1…
Thunk.
His head hit the mattress, earning me a discombobulated half-awake stare.
Earning *him* a grin. 😀
{Insert utter bafflement and rapid blinking (his, of course) here.}
“And why,” he drawled confusedly, “did you snatch my pillage?”
“Retaliation,” I explained with academic assuredness. “Retaliation for the converse.”
(It drives him batty when I use mathematicalegalese, especially at this hour… Which is why I do it. 😀 )
Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he stared owlishly at me, attempting to formulate a question. “Uhhh…?”
“Or is it the inverse? Retaliation for the inverse. Or the converse. I forget.”
Blink, blink.
“You see,” I said (in my most smug school-marm voice), “I have snatched your pillage…”
“Errr…?”
“…Because YOU are forever pillaging my snatch.”
