In cat terms my cat lives alone. She’s a runty calico and doesn’t get along well with other cats, nor with dogs, as we discovered when I dog-sat my brother’s young lab bitch. (There were clear messages she, the cat, did not like the intruder’s presence, frightening down to the very core of cat’s bowels.) She is a fussy eater. And I agree, no one likes to eat alone. I’ve found she eats a lot happier if while she crouches over the bowl I stroke her sides, as if to approximate for her the presence of her litter mates nursing, or, if you watch nature shows, the lioness’ greedy competition pressed side by side, growling, at the opened flesh of the beast brought down in the hunt. When I brush her sides so when she eats, the purring is immediate and loud, and food that was unworthy minutes ago becomes juicy and rich again as the still-pulsing liver of fresh prey. Her face doesn’t quite emerge covered with fresh gazelle blood, but one senses a smile and general satisfaction as she looks around, as if to say, "I am very pretty."

You would understand my interest in the matter if you saw all the times I’m adding a touch of water and stirring the Fancy Feast she has licked about then turned away from, leaving me the unpleasant choice of what to do with the rejected, as we put too much stuff down the drain, balanced with the aromatic trash bins of a Washington summer. Maybe she just thinks she's hungry sometimes, after being out all night, takes a bite and realizes she's full. Who knows?