Unlike the master, I'm by nature an early riser, and even at this hour, my stomach's already grumbling. As the lowly cat, I've no hope of being fed in advance of the family members. Such is a cat's lot, but it's not inconceivable that enticing vapors could already be wafting up from some savory broth in my clamshell bowl, and just the thought of this spurs me to my feet. When one's hope lies in fickle fantasies, and one knows them to be fickle, it's best to stay put and just relish the hope for hope's sake. That being said, I can't refrain from searching out the visons playing in my mind's eye. Even in the face of certain disappointment, there's no peace to be had until that disappointment is met head on. Unable to contain myself, I crawl out to the kitchen. First stop is my clamshell bowl in back of the stove. As expected, it's licked clean from the evening prior. In silence and stillness, it glows with the weak rays of early autumn sun that spill through the opening over the transom. Osan has scooped freshly-cooked rice into the wooden serving vessel and is stirring a pot on the earthenware brazier. The outside of the iron pot is adorned with myriad streaks of dried-on rice broth that's leaked down its sides, looking in places like it's been plastered over with yoshino paper. As the rice is done and the pot well along, the time is right, as I see it, for feeding the cat. Where nothing is ventured, nothing is gained, and there's no harm in trying. I may not get what I'm after, but at least I'm going to try. Though a free lodger in this house, I'm hungry nonetheless. Thus determined, I let loose with a series of mews, buttering up, appealing, and also tinged with a hint of discontent. Osan pays me no heed. She's a homely thing, and always has been, and never been known to exude any feminine warmth. It's my mission, though, to cry up to her just so and elicit some sympathy.