Oh Phoenix, my husband was a slave to our late lamented cat. He ( DH, not the cat) would get herded into the utility room towards the cat bowl.
Interference by Trump in the World Cup.
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Mr P, just about to pander to Minnies whims!
As usual, the cats get their supper at 6pm, the "bongs" being the signal.
So, I selected a pouch from the meat variety (they have fish ones for breakfast 
).
Turkey, as it happens.
In they come, Oliver Sprout tucks in, Madam Min take a sniff, turns up her dainty little nose and stalks off 
Now, bear in mind that she is far from starving, and if she doesnt like the food on offer, there is a bowl of cat biscuits available!
Anyway, I tell her to like or lump it, leave the kitchen to go to the loo (tmi) come back and find Mr P with a pouch of beef flavour in his hand, all ready to give it to her!
Humph! He is prepared to bend over backwards to please that little minx, but won't even pick up his socks for me!
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