How did a piece of old french toast arrive in the middle of the kitchen floor this afternoon?

Really, what a strange site to behold, that unexpected slice of egg-dipped cooked bread laying face down (seemed to be an end piece) on the floor’s faux brick pattern. Made me feel like I was in someone else’s kitchen observing a mysteriously quirky trait of the kitchen’s owner. (”Here’s the new refrigerator. And this is our face-down-floor-french toast. And this is…”)

I don’t suppose the newest addition to the house had anything to do with this mystery– long, sleek, graceful, beautiful, dark haired Audrey (as in 6 month old kitten named after Ms Hepburn)? hmmmm