The cat sits on the fridge watching me slice up potatoes. He looks unimpressed at the thin uniformity of my slices.

"You may be the King of the Kitchen, Coco, but you know nothing about food prep," I say to him. "You wouldn't know good knife work if it got you in the belly," I challenge.

Coco is not king of the kitchen. But we humour him with the title of "King of the Kitchen" because from the perch on the fridge that seems to have become his perch of preference these days, he looks like he is passing judgement on everything. The nickname is meant to be ironic, but the irony is too subtle for Coco. He is a cat, after all. A cat that thinks he is a King.

I go to open the freezer, saying, "Coco, I just have to get some bacon."

He looks at me tiredly. Then stands up so that he doesn't fall off the fridge. He stands with exaggerated slowness– with the indolent air of the self-important. While he thinks he is the king of the kitchen, he knows that I am bigger than him, and so he defers instinctually, as he must to all of us but Lisa, whom he still dreams of eating.

The eternal conflict of the domestic cat– both king and slave.

I don't like his attitude. But I try to stay positive with the rank and file. "We'll make a cat of you one day!" I say encouragingly.

Obviously, this is a comment that can be taken in a number of ways. And King of the Kitchen doesn't take it in the manner that I offer it.

He jumps down off the fridge and slinks off to the balcony, looking back at me in disdain as he goes.

Days later. I walk in as Lisa is finishing up her morning oatmeal, in the kitchen.

"What's up kiddo?" I ask.

She doesn't have to answer. We both know that we both know that she is getting ready for school.

"Hey." I say, looking up at the top of the fridge.

"What?" she says.

I look at her, then point back up to the fridge with my eyes.

"What?"

"Coco isn't there." I say.

"So?"

"Why don't you climb up there and finally assert your dominance?"

"What?"

"If you get up there, Coco couldn't get up." I say. "You could be the King of the Kitchen."

Lisa looks up at the fridge. "And then he wouldn't dream of eating me any more?"

"Exactly Lisa." I say. "Modern battles are won in the kitchen."

She considers it, but she seems to have enough confidence that she feels no need to assert herself. "I don't mind if Coco sits up there," she says, "He's older than me. In cat years."