Is it fair, I ask you, that because Carll and Jane can’t shed some unwelcome poundage, I must be starved? Such sympathetic magic is unworthy of these purportedly educated adults. My girth has nothing to do with theirs, nothing.

Had I put on an ounce or three? Was I sometimes loggy, groggy? Had my prance decelerated into a sort of waddle? Was my collar tightening to a noose? You could say that – if you were rude. What I could say about Carll, whom I must observe in the buff, attending to his matutinal ablutions! He should issue eyeshades, like on long-distance flights. And does Carll “cut back”? He claims to – in the morning – a spoonful less yoghurt – no muffin – quite the man! He maintains his moderation mostly until dinner but then – Avast! Heads up, buttercup! – he pours a drink – a flagon – which exacerbates appetite – and thirst for “just one more, a little one” – which suggests to his now inflamed and disordered psyche a cookie – “only one – I deserve it” – then it’s hold your hat, Harry, till next morning, atop his scale, a despondent groan. I know less about Jane’s travails in this department but her grumbles are no less frequent. “We really must” she begins urging Carll, whose expression crinkles into a grimace. Sentences beginning “we really must” are headed nowhere good.

I get it. I sympathize. I don’t really but it’s polite to say so. How many times have you sighed sympathetically “Poor you,” when what you meant was “You jackass”? Such little lubricative lies keep the social engine humming. Dogs don’t bother. We sniff bum-holes and that’s that, have a nice day.

We were talking food rationing, a.k.a. starvation – for yours truly, their purported darling – to assuage their own ugly feelings about avoir du poids. What are they thinking – that a slenderer Henry assures a less blobby Carll? Are all humans this daft or did I draw the short straw when it came to parents?

The extra effort I must exert begging! Supplication’s my vocation, no less than a street hustler’s. And I’m good at it, gotta say. I focus my big brown eyes, almost liquid with yearning, and cock my little head, as if fascinated with my target’s interior. No flattery more endearing than rapt attention. When Carll was a publisher, his number one, two, and three pearls of wisdom for his sales force were listen to your clients as if you cared what they were saying. Humanity, it seems from my limited sampling, is starved for a good hearing – even Carll, who can’t stop blabbing.

My begging yields additional treats, but not enough. Could be (this is a theory) the fear of hunger makes one hungry. Adequately fed, I never gave food a second thought. Now, as for Oliver Twist in the workhouse, it’s my idee fixe. I obsess, the way Carll says he does over the blobby orange face of the Nameless One. One nifty new idea of those nincompoops is to deny admission to America because of … obesity! Now if only we can lure the Nameless One overseas…

Various drastic cures have been suggested to my keepers if they feel that bad about it: some new potion called Ozempic, stomach-stapling, pricey spas, a “weight coach”. “It’s not that bad,” they quickly clarify, plump maybe, not fat! Push your chair back and halve your portions strike me as the most reliable and least dramatic remedies.

Meanwhile, they continue to starve this innocent they claim to love. Slimmer do I feel zippier, happier, more get-up-and-go? I suppose. But I’m HUNGRY.