My pussy smells like fish.

Which wouldn't be a problem, except the fish (she says, with emphasis, giving Notamus the side-eye) was meant for my dinner.

This afternoon I told Der Alter Jo the charming story of how Notamus had once intercepted a piece of pepperoni, mushroom, and black olive pizza while it was on its way to my mouth. He got a healthy shark-bite out of it before he bounced off the wall.

What? You try eating pizza when something with teeth is going after it and see what you do.

So, tonight, I had made myself a lovely tuna salad with chopped cornichons and shredded cucumber and grated onion and a delicate lashing of mayo. I had planned on eating it with pita bits and maybe itty shreds of veggies.

I mixed up the tuna with the mayo (home-made, by the by, with lemons I squeezed myself and olive oil carefully dribbled into the blender) and the onion and the cornichons and then turned my back to assemble the other bits of dinner.

When I turned around, I found one Notamus eating MY TUNA.

*cue frustrated troll noises*

So: Notty got two-point-six ounces of tuna. With fixin's. I got pistachios and wine.

HAT is only one letter different from CAT.

(And, post-scriptally and parenthetically, how weird is it that my cat likes sour French pickles? Because the underlying aroma of his breath is cornichons, overlaid with TUNA. Bastard.)