My housemate is sitting at the table by the scene of the crime. "If he's whining don't listen to him," he advises me. "I just refilled his bowl ten minutes ago. He nudged that aside with his nose." I pick up the bowl and shake it around to re-distribute the cat food. I feel as if I'm stretching out the dish of nuts at a really cheap party. I place it down before Lionel Barrymore, who eagerly tucks in like a Dickensian orphan on Christmas Day.
Sorely leads he a life of tribbilaytions, don't he, the lil' dollink.