The Fatpuss is very doleful today. He does not like the diet food. Or the new regime that accompanies it.
This morning he sniffed at the new diet chompie, inhaled one, coughed, spat it out again, and snorted at me in disgust.
He alternated between hopefulness (as I walked towards the Former Home of Fat Chompies) and despair (as I walked past).
In the end, as I continued to ignore his pleading, he resorted to flirting with me in an effort to make me give in.
He jumped onto the bed. He turned round in a circle, arching his back. He waggled his tail and blinked a long, slow blink at me.
He activated the subsonic purr, grumbling deep inside his throat as he batted his eyelids. He even rolled onto his side (no easy task given the amount of stomach he has to heft over in the process) and stuck a leg into the air, elongating his neck in an invitation to pat him.
Pat me, he crooned silently. Pat me, and succumb to my glorious voluptuousness. And then feed me Fat Chompies.
I gave in - to the pats, that is, and we had a lovely little affection exchange. That is, I patted him and ignored the subtext, and he endured me patting him in an effort to reinforce it.
I'm sure that by the time I get home this evening he will have conscripted Podae and Grimth, forced them to write large signs with ideological slogans, and will have them picketing the doorway in protest.
If I make it inside without a dead mouse being thrown at me, I'll be mightily surprised.