There is not a scintilla of evidence supporting [Miss M’s] “so-called” correct pronunciation of “wool.”–A. Leland
She didn’t even have a scintilla of remorse for scarfing down the last scraps of the leftover ribs.–Miss M
Oh. I get it. Miss M read her sentence and I was like, “What? Missy didn’t get any ribs last night.” Now I get it.
It wasn’t the ribs she was scarfing down. It was the rib juice/marinade at the bottom of the foil-lined pan in which last night’s ribs baked.
By way of explanation, Missy has a bad habit of waiting in the kitchen’s shadows for the kitchen to become vacant. That’s when she puts her paws up on the counters. Usually, when I approach the kitchen, she scurries like a little rat and through habit gets in her box. Today, I walked in on her licking the foil. It wasn’t until I was right next to her that she realized she’d been caught red-tongued with her nose in the pan.
That’s the story to which Miss M’s sentence refers.
You’d think she’d learn– Missy, that is. Maybe she has. She must be doing some doggy utility cost-benefit analysis. “Get in my box? That’s the punishment? I love my box! Here’s my calculation: I snag a few morsels, ‘get in my box’ and relish the taste. I especially like it when you draw the blinds over my box… it’s so warm and dark and… . You have no idea how good my box smells to me! “
Dang. Maybe I should get a stick.
“Flue” and “flume” differ only by a scintilla.–Mr. Big Food
Inside, family joke.
Despite years of personal, political, and religious oppression, a scintilla of human dignity remained in the Pilgrims– a spark that could only be kindled in the New World.–Marica