Mercifully, the meal was drawing to a close.  Although delicious, a more apt description would have to be<i>painfully delicious.  </i>Anton was already considering what other dishes would be best to utilize the<i>Double-Kick Hot Sauce </i>in<i>. </i>Though by no means was this happening within the next three months or so.  His chili would be a perfect destination.  If memory served, however, he recalled distinctly the scolding Evangeline heaped on him for even<i>thinking </i>of throwing even one Habanero Pepper into the pot of chili.  She knew all too well the devastating punch those little orange bastards packed.<br/><br/>Seemingly a day late and a dollar short, the feline Boeing 757 decided it was high time for an inspection.  All this time, Anton marveled, and only now he decides to investigate the table?  Surely, the two of them had to have been able to pick up on the tempting aromas wafting from said table, especially with their enhanced sense of smell.  Love (or lust) conquered all, as some would say, even keeping at bay a Maine Coon’s hunger pangs.  Well, so much for that.  Tesla left the cozy confines of his lover and voiced his order from the menu.<br/><br/>As if on cue, Stella had already procured a pair of Salmon Supreme food pouches.  Pouch coordinates that were immediately entered into Tesla’s GPS.  The nuclear submarine tracked its prey, hunkering directly in front of his owner and roommate.<br/><br/>"Is Lics this dramatic?" asked Stella rolling her eyes at Anton.  His response was a hearty guffaw, since he admittedly knew better.  “Um, no, Stella.  Licorice has no need to be anywhere near dramatic as your Tesla,” he replied.  A glance toward the aforementioned Persian resulted in an expression that all but screamed<i>Me Master, You Slave.</i><br/><br/>Returning his attention to Stella, Anton was still laughing at the thought.  “You see, Licorice has no need for dramatics.  She’s spoiled-ass rotten as it is,” he said.  Having said so, a tilt of his head later was now centering on his roommate.  A roommate who executed a convincing feline yawn.  Clearly, there was some kinda kitty<i>fuck you </i>embedded in that yawn.  No matter, as there was a smile on Anton’s face.<br/><br/>The Salmon Supreme pouches didn’t stand a chance against the Zeppelin onslaught.  And Licorice?  She continued her Cleopatra-esque pose on the chair's headrest. Probably wondering where in the hell those grapes were.