"I never realized the kitchen floor sloped that much," she told Old Horsemeat after dinner. "Maybe some beams need to be jacked up in the basement. I'd hate to think of collapsing into it while I cooked dinner."
"I'm sure this house finished all its settling thirty years ago," her husband assured her hurriedly. "That slope's always been there."
"Well, if you say so," Kitty-Come-Here allowed doubtfully.
Next day she found Gummitch's bowl upset again and the remains of the boiled water in a puddle across the room. As she mopped it up, she began to do some thinking without benefit of Concentration Box.
That evening, after Old Horsemeat and Sissy had vehemently denied kicking into the water bowl or stepping on its edge, she voiced her conclusions. "I think Gummitch upsets it," she said. "He's rejecting it. It still doesn't taste right to him and he wants to show us."
"Maybe he only likes it after it's run across the floor and got seasoned with household dust and the corpses of germs," suggested Old Horsemeat, who believed most cats were bohemian types.
"I'll have you know I scrub that linoleum," Kitty-Come-Here asserted.
"Well, with detergent and scouring powder, then," Old Horsemeat amended resourcefully.
Kitty-Come-Here made a scornful noise. "I still want to know where he gets his liquids," she said. "He's been off milk for weeks, you know, and he only drinks a little broth when I give him that. Yet he doesn't seem dehydrated. It's a real mystery and—"