Something I have yet to discuss is that there is another cat living here. An old, decrepit lady who needs special care. To protect her identity, we shall call her Mathayus. We are never in the greater part of the house at the same time, and her food and water bowls are removed before I am allowed to roam my domain. Usually, that is.
Earlier this week, their removal had been overlooked by the two-legged staff, and the scent reached me as I made my way down the stairs. Poultry, my nose said. Perhaps a mix. I sneaked my way past the coffee table, around the couch, and, at last, there it was: a low-rimmed teal dish in which was served a most moist feast of what I came to identify as turkey as it made its way down my gullet. I love all food equally, but the wet variety is treated as special by the humans, and so it feels special to gulp it down. The fact that it was behind their back made it all the more sweet.
The kibbles were taken from me before I could indulge in their specific brand of crunchiness, but I will always have the memory of that extra helping to keep me warm at night.