Feed me.

You cannot resist my eyes. They call to you. They say, "Give me Fancy Feast!" Now!

Please.

My people think I can't handle meat. They call me a vegetablarian or something. Just because I hurl sometimes, ok, most of the time, after I eat meat, does NOT give them the right to deprive me of one of life's most yummy pleasures!

My girlfriends, Cleo and Allie, get to eat Fancy Feast, aka "the good stuff" whenever people come into the house. I don't trust anyone other than my own people, so when strangers ring the bell, I smell danger. I hide myself strategically under the bed. I listen carefully for anything out of the ordinary. So far, I haven't had to expose myself from under the bed as my alter-ego, Puss-in-Boots, sword in paw, to protect my people. But I'm ready. En Garde!

I love my peoples so much that I'll do anything to protect them. Even perform stakeouts under the bed for them! So why do they always reward my girlfriends when people come over, instead of me? It's not fair!

Do not reveal my true identity to my people, por favor. But I implore you, ask them to show mercy on my growling tummy. I prefer the delectable sliced turkey feast in gravy. (It has an orange label.)

Muchas gracias. I give you elevator butt and show you my belly.