He'd sat patiently on the threshold of the kitchen all afternoon. She'd dropped countless morsels of crust, of walnuts, chunks of apple and even some of her own snacks, the clumsy klutz. Yet he'd abstained, withheld, conquered himself.

Now she was taunting him -- he felt it deep in his soul. She'd left the pies to cool -- small round pies, aromatic sweet pies -- at eye level. His eyes. She'd gone from the house (where? did it matter?) and left him to conquer himself.

Taunting his resolve. He thought to his mother who'd trained him in her ascetic ways. "Human food will poison you -- you'll grow lethargic and tepid. Lukewarm dogs don't go to heaven." The puritan! Had she seen such fruit! Such potential happiness! A chocolate shop, and his domain within it!

The woman returned. She looked at him. "Ah you're a good one, you are. Didn't touch the pies. But this one's for you anyhow."

She placed it on the floor before him. "Eat it," she said. It's minced meat. It'll do you good.