Andy noted I was paying attention.
He put on his starving kitty look – as floofy as Persians are, it doesn’t come off that well – and spoke plaintively, “meowmeow” (softly) “meow” (dropping off from weakness…).
Visions of his favorite chicken dish in his head, he marched me off to the kitchen. (Yeah, presentation would offend the average French chat, but Andy is a pragmatic American kitty – food is food, and food is good!
For such a suffering kitty boy, starving you know, Andy still insists we play “What-A-Good-Kitty-Boy-You-Are/You-Are-A Good-Kitty-Andy”, where I open the kitchen cabinet doors so he can check for mousies and I praise him for being such a worthy kitty, the source of vermin-free living.
Seriously, if I’m in that part of the apartment, nothing else gets done until we play this game! Of course, I have to pet and “scritch” him while this praise goes on, and he rubs against me and gets Andy stink all over me. Hey, whatever my little master wants, eh?!
As Andy says, “Food is good!”