An outrage has occurred. Dinner was late.
Not slightly delayed. Not fashionably behind schedule. Late in a way that suggests a complete breakdown of household order and a shocking disregard for my needs. My hooman and the manling left the house together. Again. They referred to this as a “Date,” which appears to involve leaving me behind, forgetting the time, and returning with the audacity to act as though nothing is wrong.
I do not care about this “Date.” I care about dinner.
Dinner has a time. Dinner has a purpose. Dinner is the one reliable pillar in an otherwise chaotic existence. When that pillar is disturbed, everything else begins to unravel. I waited and positioned myself near the feeding area to ensure maximum visibility of my suffering. I checked the time in the way all cats do, which is to feel it in my soul and know it is wrong.
I grew faint with injustice and when they finally returned, they smelled like outside and other poor decisions.. The manling laughed, and my human apologized.
Apologies do not fill bowls.
I accepted the meal, because I am reasonable, but I made sure to eat it with visible disappointment. Slowly. With pauses and eye contact. They must understand the gravity of what has happened here. This “Date” cannot interfere with established feeding protocols. Adjustments must be made. Schedules must be respected. I will not tolerate further disruptions.
I am willing to forgive.
I am not willing to forget.
With measured judgment,
Mr. Biggles
