Feeding Time…

BowlsIt rouses her from her deep slumber.  It makes her erratically impatient on her leisurely walks so that she nearly canters down the road, feet barely touching the ground, frightened that she will miss it.

 

Food.

 

Her internal alarm clock, built up from the daily routine of the last twelve years, cries out that she needs to be fed and even demands that it happens right now.  She informs them through that high-pitched whinge that she has perfected.  It is matched with a pawed arm or a pawed knee.  She will not be perturbed until she can feel the glorious sensation of each biscuit crumb and each drip of juice slide deliciously down her throat.

 

“You must listen to me, guys!  I want feeding!”

 

It happens twice a day, and they are in no doubt that it is near breakfast or dinner time.  Sometimes she is impatient and starts her demanding early, sometimes an hour before when the clocks are put back.

 

And once she’s done, once she’s sated, she lies in that black and white fluffy ball, tip of nose touching tip of tail and dreams of those long walks on that cold beach or that half-gnawed bone.

 

She’s content.  She’s peaceful.

 

Well, until next time…

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