First there is the tensing. He holds himself like a breath, like a bowstring, needle just over a record.

Before the clock there was the sundial, the hourglass; the timepiece inside him is older still. I read once that animals can sense an oncoming storm. In lieu of natural disasters, he’s tuned into the dinner bell. The sharp pellet sounds of dry kibble on metal could be china set tremor-rattling in the cabinet, in a fashion, but he knows it’s coming before it comes. Setting up pieces on the chessboard just to knock the table over.

He could camp beside the autofeeder, close the remaining gap between himself and his fancied prey, but he plays coy every time. He comes by it honest, he’s just like me, he’s afraid to be seen wanting. Instead he’ll wander downstairs, insouciant, casual stagger to the window as though to set his watch. Disinterested little moue of a mouth, little mew out his mouth, and when the hour ticks over, he takes off like a thousand and one cliches, rocket bullet rumour bat out of hell, my little zero to sixty scoundrel zooming up the stairs.

I watch him set upon his bowl, triumphant gnashing flicking tail and purring all the while, and ache; I’ve never enjoyed anything so much.