Deprivation In Der Furrybunker

Poor Alfred. I've started being a little stricter about dinner. I'm pretty overweight so of course the cats are on a diet. Dora doesn't seem to mind too much. She hates when I refer to her as 'Charging Rhino Haunches' or 'Thunder Thighs' and I started putting small wall mirrors at floor level.  She also seems to understand that dinner will eventually be served.

Alfred on the other hand is less secure. He meows and I meow back. Or moo, which just pisses him off. I tap the partially-full food dishes with my toe and point and tell him to go eat what's in the bowls and stop asking for more. He stretches up to the counter when I get something for myself to eat. And then he pouts and starts acting as if Herr Fatguy will never feed them again.

Sad Alfred is so Sad. :(

Or maybe I'm mad and getting ready to sell them to the itinerant Canadian fur traders that must be in the neighborhood.

I had to comfort him and assure him that cat fur isn't really worth all that much and that he would indeed live to eat again. It took a little while but he seems to have chilled out a little.

I was careful to not mention the recent increase in demand for cat organs in the underground cat transplant market. I'd probably never see him again.