delayed gratification or wasted hours?

I have all the time in the world to make my heist. It is not time wasted but fully lived inside the scheme, before the scream.

Delayed gratification has a particularly calming rhythm that lays my hair down flat, puts a shine to my coat and my eyes. I feel focused and alert when any task is just a holding pattern that has value only as a means to occupy me near the opportunity for gaining more, namely, more dietary variety.

There was not a moment to waste with haste. I will lose all if I raise their suspicions. I try to withhold any show of attention to their meal. The subjects are eating a potato and milk product.

It was whipped in a bowl much like my own. They consumed in the cultural custom common to them, probably common to you as well, with bright reflective pieces of metal. An odd practice that, when they already have been equipped with handy thumbs and palms rather than dew toe and less manipulatable pads.

After eating their fill I can only assume, they left the remainder for the lower in the pecking order. They may plan to come back and graze, ravaging the remains further, at their leisure. I have even observed food being thrown out or to put grams of it in the fridge and only bringing it out when mouldy. With lobe tingling milk involved, it is only moral for me to prevent such squandering of resource. I planned to get my share guaranteed.

They sat for minutes, hours, each burrowed away in their tasks. As they calculated I calculated. When they were deep in their concretration, breaths shallow and regular, heads steady and eyes in a tracing pattern, once it seems, according to my observations, they had completely forgotten about having eaten or where they left it, I began to scan a route.

On silent feet, I bounded from floor to chair to chair to countertop and with the stealth of a forest hunter ducked behind bags and book stacks until I had the bowl within whiskers. Checking over my shoulder that my last approach remained unnoticed I bowed my head to thank Catess Mror for good fortune so far.

As I commenced the lapping of the sweet starchy condiment I stifled back a purr. For all the work, it was rich and silky as cream, and I savored it, lick after lick,

… until the scream and flapping of limbs. With an agile arc I lept away.

I lick my lips, and chin, between my spread toes, start to see if that loose sheath of claw is ready to come off. We stand and blick at each other, then I lick my butt. She, doesn’t oddly.


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