where he feeds me

hullo again this is remote cat.

When last we spoke, my desire was affections from the man-feeder. While
this has not changed, I must confess that my desires this morning are less
affectionate, and more, shall we say, confrontational. I believe the term you
might use is "hangry". Yes, the man-feeder, in his haste to work skipped
directly past the food bowl this morning. My standard pre-lunch routine is to go
to the bowl, gobble up my delicious morsels which the man-feeder lovingly places
into it, and then pursue the hand. However, on occasion, the man-feeder rudely
forgoes the morning feeding and goes straight to the letter-squares or the ear
protrusions. It is my sworn duty to remind him of his error.

I begin in song, a ballad, lamenting the long era of famine, recalling thefallen who have bravely suffered through lean times before. I sing of the oldenhours, just a short night ago, when the dish was filled, and kitty treats raineddown upon me from on high at the pleasure of the man-feeder. I am rewarded by afew measly pats upon the head, which I do not despise, yet they do not calm thetrembling of my empty cavern of a belly. I reach to deliver a more potentreminder, but remembering times past where this effort has failed, retract my claws limb. I try a new approach.

The man-feeder has already shown a timely proclivity to pet me, though
absentmindedly. I may be able to use this. I again reach a paw up, and feel the
caress of his hand, but do not have his eyes upon me yet. I extend the tips of
the claws just enough to be a light nuisance and draw the man-feeder's
attention, but not his blood. This is promising. He is now looking down, surely
seeing the hunger in my eyes, and recalling what he has forgotten. No! A mere
light swat at the claws! I have but few options left at my disposal.

This has worked before, but with consequences. I attempt to bring up the past
meals I have eaten, mixed with past bathing sessions. Yes, a hairball. I begin
the sequence, first a light convulsion around my stomach. Next a contraction in
the throat. A few more of those. Finally, I make the sound that announces, "mess
on aisle 2" is but around the corner. This gets the man-feeder's attention,
which indeed was my desire, but alas, I have gotten so far in the process that I
cannot control what happens next. My stomach may not have been as empty as I
professed. A splat of fluid and wet fur is expelled, and the man-feeder is not
amused. He rises speedily from the desk, forgetting that the ear protrusions are
attached. They yank away, and profane speech leaves his lips. I scurry to what I
hope to be safety, under the table in the adjacent room and up into the padded
chair. At this point, the man-feeder does not chase me, but gathers a few papers
to wipe up the mess. Surely these gastric juices will remind him of the empty
dish. Alas, the Lady Fortune flees far away, and he passes by the dish without
refilling it.

There is one last opportunity I have. It is the nuclear option, and may result
in more sever punishment, especially after the last endeavor. Sometimes, we must
make sacrifices for the greater good -- MY greater good. My claws are getting a
bit dull anyways. I hop down from the chair after the man-feeder has seated himself again, but before he has placed the protrusions back into his ear canals. He looks at me as if he knows what is coming next. His mouth makes some inane sound which I do not understand, but I gather the intent. Still, I reach up and begin to pull at the cloth and wood that make up the chair I was but just resting in. The man-feeder rises quickly yet again. This time, a chase ensues.

I must get to the dish. I run with all I have, the man-feeder close behind. A serpentine dash seems appropriate, so I cut left around the table as the
man-feeder slams against the wall, and yet pursues me. I turn another corner
with the man-feeder close behind. One more corner, and I have made it around the
table. I scurry out of this room into the place where my food would be,
and run to sit beside the empty dish. The man-feeder stomps over to where I sit,
and looks down. He has seen it. Still stomping, he pulls out the bag, the
beautiful, glorious bag, and begins to pour. At long last, the famine is lifted,
the fast broken. A new day has dawned. I leave the man-feeder to his
letter-squares for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, I will seek his affections
once more.