Feed me Neow!

Every day, barely awake,
I step out of bed,
my last hours stolen.

Here we go again.

The cat screams bloody murder.
"Neow," he says.
I swear, he has evolved.

Dominance is needed,
sustenance is power.
Didn’t you know?

Two hours before feeding time.
Guess he had a bad dream.
I can relate.

He follows every step,
trips me at every turn.
To me, it’s like he never learns.
But maybe this is learning.

Maybe he’s afraid I’ll forget.
He’s probably right.
But we’ll never know.

Seven hours without nourishment.
Poor guy.
If he doesn’t eat now, this is it.
A slow, dramatic death.

I’ve rarely missed a feeding,
three times a day.
And he won’t let me start now.

So he weaves through my feet,
a shadow, a force,
a casual threat.

To the bowl,
the counter, the fridge.
oh, damn!
Needs a new can.

Other side of the kitchen.
High risk.
Every move a gamble.
Ankle bite imminent.

To the cupboard—
if I dodge him now,
he’ll just get me later.

Frig it!
I let him.
Still half-asleep.

Back to the counter,
into the bowl,
onto the floor.

Mission accomplished.
Bounty secured.
No blood drawn.

A quarter cup of extortionate vet food.
Same shit, every day.
Still, he devours it
like he’s never tasted umami before.

Face buried in the bowl.
Snorting it? Chewing it?
Hard to say for sure.

He sounds savagely satisfied.
A gremlin of ginger before sunrise.