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Widow Rosebank had been washing dishes when a broom had suddenly appeared over her right shoulder and a muddy mass of dingy white fur had dropped like a stone into the dish pan. Like a stone, it had sent a fair amount of dirty dishwater over the edge of the pan and onto her bodice and apron. The mass of fur started yowling and, resolving itself into a very unhappy-looking cat, leapt out of the pan (scattering yet more dishwater onto Widow Rosebank, this time getting her in the face).
At about the same moment, Miz Bunce had appeared, shrieking for someone to grab the cat, only to slip and fall in the puddle at the Widow's feet. For the second time that day, she was nearly knocked off her feet by a hobbit. Blindly catching herself on the counter, she did keep her feet, but nearly fell again when Ruby charged past, determined to follow Cook's order. More shrieks filled the air as little Wren Woodlock entered the kitchen and in the way of small girls, took the cat's part.
The widow, firmly on the side of orderly kitchens, was quick to come to Ruby's assistance. Stepping over Miz Bunce and Ruby, she firmly grasped the angry cat by the scruff of its neck and relieved him of his ill-gotten chicken. Handing the carcass to Ruby, who had let go of the tail once she saw that the culprit was firmly in the Widow's hands, she wrapped the furious animal up in her apron.
"Bad kitty!," she scolded. "Bad, bad, BAD kitty!" The unrepentant feline put its ears back and hissed ferocisously while trying to free a forefoot to claw her. "Pish, tush," the widow replied, wrapping her apron more tightly around the small wriggling body. "If you're going to be such a nuisance, you're going to get the trouble that comes with it."
The cat expressed his disdain for the widow's statement with a series of yowls and hisses and continued his attempts to escape. Disregarding this show of force, the widow tucked him firmly under her arm and looked about the kitchen. Ruby was protectively cuddling a smoked chicken. Miz Bunce was sopping wet and nearly shooting sparks out of her eyes as she glared about. She herself wasn't any drier, and was holding a loudly caterwauling cat in her apron. Wren was demanding the instant release of the creature. All in all, they looked like a collection of lunatics.
The Widow tried. She really did. This was just not the moment, she told herself firmly. But alas, she couldn't help herself. "Well, at least the dishes are clean," she said.
But she couldn't stop the giggle that escaped her. Or the one after that.
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