The cats were at it again; they'd been making hot water for tea, and had suddenly taken it upon themselves to make muffins, which was a messy task. None had opposable thumbs (Mortimer, the Hemingway cat, had gone to live with the dogs two houses over, citing irreconcilable difference) and so breaking the eggs was always a tricky proposition. They tried their best, of course. The pink pads of their paws pressed eagerly to the eggs as they gently tried to crack them against the counter tops. For the most part, they were wildly, destructively unsuccessful. Except for Janet Mae.