"Don't give me that look, Barnaby," Greg frowned. "It had to be done. I've told you from the start it had to be done."
The six month old cat glared fiercely at Greg, looking half stoned and half irretrievably pissed off.
"Look, do you want to be a Detective Chief Inspector on the side of the good, or do you want to be a Moriarty? Nothing but bad news, causing trouble and stink wherever you go?"
At this, the small cat meowed softly, before turning himself and lifting his leg high up in the air to show off what had been orchestrated by this tall human turncoat.
"Right then. I think you can probably be fed now," Greg finally said, shaking his head and heading into the kitchen. At the sound of the can opener, Barnaby suddenly perked up. Standing upright and stretching, he stiffly made his way over to where Greg stood at the counter.
"Tuna for you, Barnaby. People tuna, not that strange tinned wet cat food. I think you've earned a little treat." He smiled crookedly as blue eyes gazed up at him.
"Mrowr, prowwwwr," Barnaby replied sweetly, his hurt feeling (for Greg was positive his cat possessed only one feeling) seemingly forgotten.
Greg snickered and stroked the silky silver head. "Oh, I'm forgiven now, hey Little Boss?"