They hardly ever feed me at all, you know. As cute as I am, as handsome with hair or without, and as highly-presentable as I am in my delightful one-piece brown suit, I can’t seem to coax any real food out of them.
I don’t count the bowl of kibble that sits on the floor under the telephone table. Oh sure, I can go there and munch whenever I want, and I suppose it does fend off the hungry monkies from time to time – you know, when I’m desperate – but there’s not much in the way of love in a bowl of kibble – not when there’s fruit and bacon and eggs and hamburger on the table above me.
Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t express some appreciation for the occasional thing that ‘lands on the floor’. I mean, it’s true that they let me have the occasional piece of dry toast – you know, a crumb off the corner – and that once-in-a-blue-moon lick of the ice cream bowl. I also cannot deny that I have enjoyed the occasional sample of pork or chicken, but for the most part I just seem to be left to starve to death.
Anyway, that’s the basis of this photograph. That’s me – trying to get that last little scrap. Trying to somehow find a way to survive.