Tucker continues to believe that he’s stealthy. And he continues to be wrong.
He has a new habit. Where these sudden shifts in behaviour come from, or where they eventually go, I don’t know, but now, when he knows I am preparing food in the kitchen, he takes up a spot under the dining table. It only occurs when human food is being made, not cat-food. But being the shape of a sausage and the size of a small cask does not give him the camouflage necessary to hide, however, and I often see this tell-tale sign.
Then, of course, there’s that big moon-face of his, always hopeful, always ready to think that he is putting one over on me. But I usually see him hasten to his new hiding spot, then talk to him when he is there.
This alerts him to the fact that he’s been seen, and that the operation has been compromised. So he scurries from the scene as swiftly as his stubby legs will carry him.
If you view old photographs of commandos from World War Two, you will note that, contrary to Hollywood’s perception, they were not muscle-bound giants who could lift automobiles with one hand. They were often of average height or even shorter, of moderate strength and weight; ordinary men with extraordinary training. But you may also note that not one of them was a sausage-shaped cat. There were good reasons for this.