We have now been together for a year, and you have proved yourself a fine companion. Indeed, after a life spent on the streets, I now feel as if I have a home. More importantly, I feel that I have not just a friend, but a companion, a loyal servant who will be with me not only in good times, but in my darkest hours.
Having said that, I would like to pose an important question to you about your day to day culinary selections:
Whatcha got there?
Whatever it is, from day to day, I find it fascinating. Mind you, I have no qualms with the food you give me for my daily nutritional needs. It is more than adequate, though it does resemble a darker colored version of the material used for packing fragile items for overseas shipment.
However adequate this may be however--and however more than adequate the occasional moist consumables you give me on special occasions--this is not the food you eat. Given that everything in this apartment belongs to me, the food you eat belongs to me as well. Therefore I must request that you surrender said food whenever I deem it necessary.
Mind you, it is not the food itself that makes me desire it. It is, instead, the simple fact that you are eating the food. When you eat food, understand that it imbues the food with a mystical quality.
When you eat food of any kind, it becomes, officially, Food That You Are Eating That I Therefore Must Eat. Consequently, it is necessary that you always leave some of this food behind, much the way those who celebrate Passover leave a glass of wine for Elijah. In this case, it is not so much an offering to a spirit as a necessary tribute to The Emperor of the Apartment.
I believe I issued this edict--”All Food You Eat is My Food”--shortly after taking residence with you. If you consult the Record of Past Edicts, you will find it as a subheading of my second edict, “Everything in This Apartment Is Mine,” which, as you may recall, I issued shortly after my first edict, “I Am Not Your Cat; You Are My Person.”
It appears you are eating cereal. This is fine. Just leave me some of the milk at the bottom.
Perhaps, as some veterinarians suggest, milk is not the best thing for me. On the other hand, I really don’t think your doctor has the kindest thing to say about Double Stuff Oreos, so we’re even. Just leave me the milk.
So. Having reminded you of the assorted laws and bylaws of this apartment, I once again ask the question that all cats ask their people: whatcha got there? Inquiring minds want to know.