It has been nearly a whole week since I last had a taste of succulent, juicy cod, and I must figure a way to persuade the humans to go out and get some for me.
Last Friday, my humans apparently discovered what the British One called "a proper chippy" and although I am not sure what a "proper chippy" is, it appears that it is a place to get delicious battered cod and vinegar-doused, thick fried potatoes.
As soon as they carried in the bag I smelled it, and knew I had to have some. Naturally I was not interested in whatever Softie was having, because it wasn't cod, but the British One certainly had some, and I knew I must make some of it mine.
I tried the subtle approach first, which was to stand under his feet in the kitchen whilst he dished it up. I stuck closely to him with my tail held high, and when he sat down I made sure he knew I was there with a few taps of my paw on his leg. He thwarted me every time I tried to reach a paw onto the plate, and a few times he even had to raise his voice to me. Which didn't matter in the least. I wanted some cod, and I would have some cod!
He made the mistake of putting a tiny morsel on the tip of his finger, which he offered to me. I was ever so eager for a taste that I momentarily forgot my dignity. Yes, I bit him!
He decided a better tactic was to cut away the batter, slice up the fish into small, kitty-bite sized pieces and serve it to me on a clean dish. Hey diddle diddle, I was over the moon!
But it's been AGES since last Friday. I must have more fish! I must locate this "proper chippy" and move in.