I place my paws on the edge, balancing myself as I peer over onto the tabletop. She places my delicious food into a bowl. She is meticulous, scraping out the smallest bits of soft, juicy morsels, with lovely, rich-tasting gravy coating every slice. I can taste it already. My mouth waters.
But she is slow. I swipe at her hands with my paw. She pushes me away. I jump up onto the table. She squeals, as she always does, and puts me back down. I will not be deterred. I jump back up onto the table before she has even straightened up. I manage one scrumptious lick before I am being lifted again.
This time, she puts me outside and shuts the door on me.
I meow aggressively. But I am only further mocked by the sound of my bowl being placed on the ground, while this door bars me from my feast.
I hate doors.