Im crabby. She says I just waste munchie she leaves for me. I dont waste it—its really icky when it dry. She can eat it if she wants it but I wont eat icky dry fish fish munchie when its supposed to be oily squishy goodness. I have crunchies in big bowl. If I want crunchies Ill go to big bowl. I dont go to tiny bowl for crunchies but for fish fish munchie. When munchie turns crunchie I wont eat. She can have it. I dont see problem.
She wont listen to me this morning. Im crabby. I ask politely very politely for soft fish fish munchie in tiny bowl. She tells something about not having more. I dont believe. I yell to open big closet and shes find some on shelf. She tell something about magic payday. I dont believe. Alls I know I dont have fish fish to lick.
I really tell how I feel. She gets Spray Bottle. I run. I try cute and leg-rubby with tail at full power fluff. She always fall for that—but has to pick me up hold me laying on my back as she pets me. I hate when she does that. I jump out her arms and run cross room.
Then I remember shes not yet get out fish fish munchie. I remind. She forgets lots. She does nothing but makes loud hissy growly noise with machine that makes black water (ruins good milk!) and turns radio on loud so it talks and talks about something called eye rack and how dangerous.
But no soft fish fish munchie. Maybe I can make her feel guilty and she gives me some tasty green laughing stuff. Makes me way more happyer than fish fish. Until I get something Im crabby.
Oh—here she comes. Maybe I can tell this and she gets laughing stuff. Oh! Oh yeah. Dont tell her I tell anything to you.