Prestidigitarian

I live in a dimension where your mother can walk in with a paint roller, offer you a beer and then tells you that the cats understand the words you're saying.

"Salmon," she says.

"Treat."

"Prestidigitarian."

The cats prick up their ears for each one and fix her with an attentive, yet blank stare. Frick loses interest and lays down on the floor, playing dead.

"Frick's depressed because she doesn't know what prestidigitarian means," Mom says as she disappears out the door, and it's only then that you realize that your beer has vanished into thin air.