"Oh no! Is Timmy in the well?" I ask her.
She replies with a dismissive snort. She hates it when I am facetious.
I tilt my head to the side and gaze deeply into her goldfishy eyeballs. "What is it, Lilly? Tell me, girl!"
She snorts. She's not having any of my phony-baloney.
Backing up with a lot of unnecessary ball-change steps, she gives me a look of as much impatience and disbelief as she can muster. Which is considerable.
If I insist on finishing the sentence I am typing -- especially if that sentence turns into two or three sentences -- she lunges with both front feet held out straight. She delivers a canine judo chop with her chilled ratty little feet.
If I continue to ignore her, she will be so moved as to give a gruff bark. It's five o'clock, dammit!
And after all -- really, truly -- who am I to resist her blandishments? I might be her Food Goddess, but it's evident my little disciple demands that I kick my divine self into gear and dish up the goods. It's dinner time already.