say cheese

Anticipation is more delicious than the dish.

So the catonese phrase goes, although, measure for measure, sometimes the dish gives a stiff hind leg hop biatholon race of competition to the waiting.

As when I was waiting for them to vacate the room so I could snared that coup of sushi roll. Eau d’poisson. Ah, the sticky rice I can almost taste again. rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I had consumed most of a roll before being boldly interrupted and my trapped vole of a rice roll taken away. But the victory of the strategic move was too late for them to claim. As the hairless talls themself admits, it is in our nature to be the huntress. “It is undoubtedly true that cats hunt. Not all cats hunt, but certainly some cats are very successful hunters and bring the overall average up. Estimates of the average number of prey brought home per domestic cat per year vary from 5 to 323.” (source: What a dream it would be to hunt down even 5 of those sushami…

To pass to more recent past. . .

Today, they had /peets sa/. (I tell you there are some words in this simian langauge worth learning!) I have even tried using my vocal folds to emulate the closed gutteral chords they use to refer to this food, but, as of yet, to no avail. (Sometimes I think though, it a deliberately thickness on their part to my accent. Who can blame them for a little cardinal sin of selfishness when it comes to some rare golden substances.)

But that aside… It had a thick toppage of cheese and hidden within it, droppings of meat, about 2 kibbles big each.

They shared it.

With each other that is. They didn’t share with me.

I waited, unexpectantly. (Not hard for someone spayed.)

I nonchalantly “slept” as they smacked and gobbled (how do they make so much wet sound while eating?)

Had they lifted my tail, my ruse would have been discovered. With the tension within it was all I could do by times to prevent myself from flicking it restlessly. Low lidded, low key I calculated how long it would be until their departure.

Eventually they made their typical gathering-items-together-for-a-walk pattern of walking about the shelter. I’ve observed their home range is ever so stunted. For my kind, home ranges for males average 280 hectares, while females such as myself tend to keep smaller ranges of about 150 hectares. Depending on food and things and cats of interest en route of course. And the vagueries of where toms and jennies are. toms…ah…I risk falling to caterwauls if I continue this thought. In facts I can already feel my hips twitch to rise to the occasion. Discipline, Valderbar. Discipline.

My point is, a nightly jaunt may take me 8 km but judging from the pollen range on their clothes, the subjects’ usual night stroll is limited to only about 4 km at most. It must be their weight. Two leggedness is certainly a handicap as well. But let us not dwell on another’s infirmities. Let me give the tail to the /peets sa/ tale.

By the time they had slid the closet door to retrieve their paw covers I was on the table in a single bound licking the cardboard plate of all the juicy dairy goodness of all natural oil and softened to palate temperature cheese curds. In my absortion I had neglected to keep a ear pivoted to the possibility of them forgetting to bring something else with them on this ever so short walk.

When they re-entered the abode and came around the corner, I was in the midst of savoring the last residue off my chin, licking my paws fastiduously (not to mention, deliciously) clean.

I made a cold casual look their way and we both diverted our eyes from the container which had slid off the table. They said nothing and went back to the door.


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