Tales From Algernon
Put on the red, laser-pointer, light
Algernon yawned contemptuously and looked to the setting sun. Night was falling, and he had not yet been fed. The human had forgotten to feed him -- again.
The obese cat licked his paw and weighed his available options. He could kill the human, of course, but that would yield but momentary pleasure and create only greater long-term food-supply problems. He could go outside and hunt for food, but the mice had grown so fast, and Algernon was not getting any younger…
No, he decided at last: There was only one thing for it. He would have to stoop to the oldest method. He would have to sell his body to the night.
He sidled into the living room where the human was enraptured by his flickering box. He flopped his body down in the middle of the room.
"Hey buddy." The human said in his grating language, but did not rise. Algernon sighed, and emitted a baleful mew. "Oh, I forgot to feed you tonight. Sorry buddy!"
The human rose and entered the kitchen, where the sound of kibble was soon heard. Algernon smiled in self-satisfaction, but his joy was not pure. At what cost had he won this meal? At what humiliating cost?