Twyla, the cat without a brain, has taken up sitting behind my computer chair, on a bar stool I moved there to create the space now occupied by the mushroom kit.
She makes the same comment every time I pass her, either to sit down or go to the kitchen. She says her one "Me-ow?" It lilts up at the end like an impatient question. The starting pitch never varies, nor does the ending. The duration of each is exactly the same as the last, whether it happened last week or just 5 seconds ago. They are so consistent that they could come from a Meow Factory.
Her latest meow, before I sat down to type these words, equally uniform and ridiculous to her, was upon my returning from the kitchen. I'd just finished slicing today's mushroom harvest. Seven mushrooms, just a little under 9 ounces. The objective of a pruning operation, their last hurrah cleared a little space for the last nine adults of the first generation.
When they speak, it is a resigned chorus of plaintive whispers, as consistent and indifferent to time as Twyla's meow. They feel betrayed by Larry, certainly, but not unappreciative of the fortuitous combination of circumstances they enjoy at this moment.
Now.
In the soil below, another generation is forming pea-sized caps. They have never heard of Larry, but I plan to tell them tomorrow, when they have developed the capacity to understand. Tomorrow, as the last of the first generation is being digested. I will them them he was a hero, possibly a messiah. I will plant the thoughts and let them develop their own mythology.
And, when they are ready, I will eat them too.
(dona, dona) dona dona dona dona, dona dona dona doe (2x)
"Me-ow?"
6:35:55 PM 
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