Each afternoon around 4:17 Fungus will pull his butt out of his bed, walk deliberately over to his food bowl, and stand, facing me. He’ll assume the most piteous, broken-down, pathetic facial expression and hold it, unblinking, until he gets fed. He’s like the eyes of Jesus in those paintings– everywhere you want to hide, he’ll be right there staring at you with those sad, hurt eyes fixed directly on you. Once the food is in his bowl it’s about a 12 second operation to vacuum it up, and then he’s bounding around and punching at my leg because now it’s time to play.