But I digress. The rules for food were as follows: there was to be no supermarket slop; no fish or offal. The preferred cuisine was to be gourmet dental biscuits. The Americans call this dry food (as well as crack cocaine, I gather) ‘kibble’. Kibble! Dear Reader, I ask you, what kind of word is that? But to continue: I mostly like the dental biscuits because they are big and crunchy, with the added bonus of sharpening my canines, keeping down the plaque and enhancing the pearly sheen of my Cheshire grin. I also like the occasional raw lamb chop – fat trimmed off, of course. Anything else and I made it clear I was prepared to starve to death, which, of course, put The Carers in a panic, so they caved in to my demands. I like a small dish of fresh milk, but their tap water is disgusting – even their toilet bowl water tastes better! So I prefer to drink rainwater from the buckets in the garden. However, I prefer my water bowl to be in a separate space from my ‘kibble’ – don’t ask why, I have no idea.