This is Max. He's hungry.
Don't be fooled by the apparent lassitude. He's a ninja. Any attempt to approach the kitchen must be done in company of Max. Any attempt to use the chopping board and knives invariably produces the heavy-lidded gaze and tail-twitching behaviour designed to induce teeny birdies to come down and play… Any attempt to ignore him while cutting up meat results in Max using my leg as a climbing post. (Luckily, I mostly wear jeans, and he's learnt, through prodigious applications of water spray, to play gentle.)
Well, this weekend, I relented. I did the unthinkable, and provided a full bowl of dry food. An unemptiable bowl of dry food. Max can snack at will. Max is no longer entirely dependent upon me for meals. (Max's expression as I ladled scoop after scoop of dry food into this enormous bowl was a study of excitement turning to slow-dawning horror.)
Maximus Stomachus has spent the past 36 hours
gorging snacking. In between snacks, he trudges around the house with a mournful air, a fierce craving for water, and a distended stomach. Maximus Stomachus is not a quick learner.
I, however, have now had two entire nights of uninterrupted sleep. I am delirious, I am drunk, with sleep. I am ridiculously enthusiastic over trivial matters. I am hoping Maximus Gluttonus learns not to gorge so that this arrangement can continue, and I can sleep the blessed sleep of those who have not procreated.