Sammy, our 18-year-old rescue cat is always hungry. Yes, he is being medicated for this but frankly, when it comes to our Sam, nothing is ever enough, not even the pills.
He is hungry enough to reduce the spud to tears by jumping up to paw pasta from a child's bowl. Hungry enough to climb up the back of the frog's chair and skid down his chest into his plate (because the frog eats meat). Hungry enough to sit beside me and gently pat me in various anatomical locations about half a dozen times during the day hoping for food. Hungry enough, if I ignore his pats, to stalk across my laptop sending a;lsklk;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; emails to my boss; hungry enough to stop mid-email to put his paw on my face, followed by a gently unsheathed claw. Just as a reminder, you see.
Having today had breakfast (5:30am; walked across my head until I got out of bed); second breakfast (8:10am, looped a hole in my trousers while I was trying to feed the spud); brunch (about 11:30, sat on keyboard); lunch (1:40, made me late for picking the spud up from his playdate); tea (5:15, stole cheese from the spud's tea until I filled his bowl); dinner (7pm, pointed out he hadn't much enjoyed his tea and now it was Stale And Old Please Change It kthanxbai) and supper (10pm, the frog gave him food in a different plate as sometimes it fools him into thinking it's New Food); Sammy is now ready for his midnight feast.
Since he has two separate, part-eaten bowls of catfood, we are, I hope understandably, reluctant to delve into our fast-shrinking stocks of Sammy food.
So he has just licked the frog's lemon drizzle cake. And liked it.
He's mad. Or senile. Or both.