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Finch the Cat

The man has left me some food again. I suppose I’d better eat it, if only to make him feel better. He is smiling after all, and urging me to: come here, kitty, kitty, though he knows full well my name is George.

Maybe I won’t eat any today, just to see how he reacts. I have eaten already. It would only be greed making me do it.

That, and guilt: he’s left me food. He’s giving me something and showing he cares. Not eating would be like peeing on the floor right next to the litter tray or waiting for him to open the door instead of going through the perfectly good cat flap.

Then again maybe I do do too much for him already. I let him stroke me even though his hand feels like a dog’s tongue. I purr when he puts his hands through my fur, and arch my back appreciatively. When he gets that ball of wool out I obligingly chase it and stick my claws in.

I’ve eaten. It was good. I killed it myself. It’s only worthwhile coming here when it’s rainy or cold. And when I extend my claws and try to stroke him the way he strokes me, he calls me bad kitty and throws me out of his lap.

Look at him. So eager. So pathetic. And he won’t give up. If I leave it, he’ll wrap it in that silver mirror stuff and put it in the fridge, keep it for me for later.

Maybe I should pee on the floor, but I know he’ll clean it. And if I wait outside and refuse to use the flap I know he’ll open the door. I’ll go out for the day, eat, and he’ll have more food ready for me when I return. Whether I eat or I don’t it doesn’t matter. I know what’ll happen.

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8 thoughts on “Feeding Time

  1. They said it couldn’t be done, but you did it! You made me feel sorry for the cat’s total selfishness – since, as you present it, it’s not merely selfishness, it’s an attempt to influence The Man. And it’s not working. Nothing works.

    Poor cat. 😉

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