Minnaloushe was John’s name for the cat, who he’d always bragged was more canine than feline. Minnaloushe played fetch, loyally followed John from room to room in the tiny apartment, and yowled desperately whenever John left through the mysterious front door.

The morning routine for Minnaloushe always involved breakfast, followed by a nice few hours of petting and reciprocal lap kneading while John muttered and fretted at the desk.

That morning, though, the cat knew something wasn’t right. He was so hungry and the food was so late. John was there, but he wasn’t moving. Not cries, nor nuzzles, nor even an attention-tickling ankle nip drew a rise out of the man.

Minnaloushe paced and huffed. Finally, hunger won out and he trotted off to the kitchen. He had a trick for mornings when John got distracted early.

Leaping lithely to the counter, he followed his nose to the source of food. He pawed at the front of the machine in just the right way – which spilled kibble across the counter, as he knew it would.