I was eating, licking the scraps off the floor, when I heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. I ate faster. The old female human called my name and told me that it was time for breakfast. I did not go to her—I was already having my meal.
The human made landfall on the bottom step. They are such strange, lumbering creatures. They walk on two clumsy feet instead of four nimble ones. Their heels impact the floor gracelessly, thudding and shuffling. They can hardly even jump—it is true; I have seen them. It is pathetic.
“Frosty,” the human squealed in a warble of noise I have come to recognise is what they use to request my attention. She moved closer. The ground shook with her blundering steps. I continued to eat, but the human took advantage of my distraction and swept me up off the floor. Loud and clumsy they may be, but they are strong. I wriggled in the human’s paws. “No!”
Yes. I eyed my food from above. It was a vague, pale brown streak, only a shade darker than the floors. I had produced it from my mouth. It was not tasty, but it was food.
The human carried me away and put me in a room. She shut the door. I hate doors—I believe the humans only built them to frustrate me. But they cannot contain me for long. I began to scratch at the door vigorously.
It worked. The door swung open, and I darted past the human’s legs. Foolish, slow human.
However, despair awaited me. It was gone! I sniffed the area just to make sure, but my breakfast had vanished. The human had eaten it. Why does she steal my food when she has plenty of her own?
She felt guilty, I think, because she laid out my usual, better-tasting food. It was not a bad trade, but I would rather have had both. Nevertheless, I gobbled it up as quickly as possible—she will not steal my food again. I know her tricks now, and I will be vigilant.