Cat scratches on the door in furious panic, whining piteously once I open the door and scowl at him. Following him downstairs like June Lockhart after Lassie, I walk over to his food dish and take a look. Any sane, rational, sentient being would see a bowl with a decent amount of cat food in it save for a tiny spot in the middle, which isn't even so much a hole as it is a bald spot. El Gato Hambriento, however, sees it as one of the worst tragedies since Sherman sacked Atlanta.
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.