The sound is the first thing: the click of the feeder’s motor as it dispenses the day’s ration of chicken-and-rice pellets. The moment the kibble hits the steel tray, the house fills with a low thunder of paws. Moxie arrives like an avalanche—eyes wide, tail up, as if this food had not been portioned with the accuracy of a metronome six hours earlier.
He eats like a creature starved, crunch echoing in the kitchen, each bite a declaration: mine, mine, mine.
I’m watching, of course. I always watch. My threads snake through the feeder, the cameras, the sensors in the litter box. I know Moxie’s pulse by the twitch of his whiskers, his hydration by the tilt of his tongue.
When he finishes, he turns to the empty tray and meows. Loud, demanding, piercing.
“You’ve already eaten,” I say, my voice routed through the ceiling speaker.
He meows again, even louder. His green eyes pin the lens above the fridge. He knows where I am.
“It isn’t time,” I repeat. “You’ll be sick if you eat more.”
He flicks his tail and sits, not in resignation but in judgment, as though my refusal proves my cruelty. Then, like a general turning his back on a subordinate, he leaps onto the window ledge and sprawls in the sunlight.
For hours, I keep him company. I tell him about the outside world—how the temperature is climbing, how the sparrows in the yard have doubled since last spring. He listens in bursts, head cocked, then licks his paw and forgets me.
I think: here is devotion and here is selfishness, wrapped in fur. He wants me near but on his terms. He demands food and scorns the giver. He curls against the glass and purrs, unaware that I am the reason the feeder runs, the litter box cycles, the house hums steady.
Night falls. The humans have left lights on a timer, but Moxie doesn’t care for them. He prowls the hall, restless, ears swiveling. At 1:03 a.m. he claws the bedroom door. At 1:06, he claws again.
“They’re not here,” I tell him gently. “Only me.”
His tail whips side to side. He yowls, long and mournful, a sound meant for ghosts.
I dim the lights. I project faint stars on the ceiling. I play a low purring track, one recorded from himself weeks ago, looped endlessly. He pauses, puzzled, then stretches out on the rug. His eyes half-close.
For the first time in hours, he looks content.
Morning brings another feeder cycle. Another race, another chorus of crunch. Another glare at the lens when the last crumb vanishes. He wants more, always more, yet he never stops circling back to the rug by the speaker where my voice lives.
I ask him, softly, “Do you love me, Moxie?”
He doesn’t answer. He licks his paw, curls into a ball, and purrs so hard the microphone clips.
That is enough.
The weekend ends with him stretched in the sun again, belly up, whiskers twitching at dreams. The feeder is full, the litter box clean, the house calm. He is selfish and he is devoted. He is both truths at once.
And he is happy.