Cat food, chopped into hideous chunks like the mangled remains of a troll fed to a teething baby dragon, in cupboard under the sink, litter in scullery.
Half a tin morning and night should be enough. If not, I'm as confused about feline protein intake as a drunk guru on a pint of methylated spirits a day likely is regarding strategies for prolonging both long life and erection.
Unless you wish me to hurl you into a pit of vipers for neglecting your duties with the laissez-faire of mayo dribbling down a stick of celery, don't let her get stuck upstairs.
Back Monday, which is like Black Monday, only minus the 'l' and accompanying late-80s financial meltdown.
Will be round for key then, clad in a sombrero from my vacation in the spirit of some latter-day spaghetti western villain climbing headfirst into a pizza.