Max slammed the soup down in front of me. Properly slammed it down, I mean. It made a sort of Thud! noise, and a warm, tomato-like substance splashed my face. I considered asking him what was wrong, but Max was like an enigma: hard to fit into an everyday conversation. I returned my attention to the soup, deciding it would be easier to understand, or at least eat. It was not, however, easier to eat - Max had not provided me with a spoon. Nervously, I hazarded the question to him.
"Spoon?" He yelled at me. "I'll spoon you!"
I waited for him to run the sentence through his mind for a second. After 36, he still hadn't noticed his minorly amusing statement, so I pointed it out to him. He glared at me, stormed into the kitchen, and returned with a handful of spoons. Angrily, he began to throw them at me, shouting abuse in Esperanto.
Sometimes, I regret the day I rescued Max from the dumpster. It's not that he was abandoned like a puppy or a prom-night baby, just that he got stuck in there one day while looking for clams. To this day, he blames mole-people. I don't believe him though: Mole people are very respectable members of society, and I won't hear a word said against them.
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