Nothing is sacred – not even my pellets.
And I have special pellets for a feline over 7 years old with kidney problems.
Definitely not grub for sick doglets – but nooooo.
That Fudges just moseys up to my bowl, tail a-wagging so much that it is like being caught in the backdraft of a Lear jet and smiles at me.
Or rather, she grins in a decidedly wolfish manner.
The fact that I am actually crouched over my bowl, enjoying my dinner appears to be entirely beside the point.
If I don’t retreat hastily, she nudges my backside with that meanie look in her eye that says… Move it cat.
I have, on the odd occasion, not moved it.
It’s not wise.
She proceeds to plunge her nose into my bowl and smooshes my pellets all over the floor.
A few desolate little crumbs clung to the sides.
I gave a pitiful yowl and leapt onto the counter.
Stalked over to where mom was working.
Butted her arm with my head. Huulllooo!
She gave me an absent-minded pat.
Butted her again. Oi! You just going to let this happen then?
Mom looked over her shoulder.
By this stage most of the pellets have been hoovered up and the bowl is completely clean.
Looked as though it had just been washed and Fudge had the good grace to look a tad sheepish.
Mom gave that dog the evil eye and wagged her finger at him.
Fudgies! That’s just rude. You can’t eat Ralph’s dinner.
You’ve just scarfed down your own supper.
That dog smirked.
Clearly she could and she did.
Mom picked up the bowl and tinkled a refill into it.
Fudges’ ears pricked up.
My heart stopped.
But she put the bowl up on the counter.
There you go Ralphie – eat your dinner.
I wrinkled my pert little white nose.
Feh! This bowl now smells of dog.
Sat down and waved my paw over my whiskers once or twice.
Don’t push it Ralph – said mom.
I’m not sure where that dog was for all those days – but she must have been highly spoiled because she has come home missing some manners.
