I'm playing a game on my phone in the kitchen when the cat walks in, clearly on her last legs with hunger. She stalks to the center of the room, gazes up at me with huge, soulful eyes, and her mouth opens without noise, in a silent meow from the depths of feline despair.
A glance at the clock tells me she's right, and I fetch the can and spend a few precious seconds mashing the can-shaped wad of processed meat into something slightly less unnatural while she circles me, now in full voice, all signs of her previous ailment vanished, yowling impatiently.
"I try to make things nice for you," I explain, and she angrily meows again.
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