One Saturday, long ago, my Dad stopped by with some canned liverwurst he'd bought from a sausage maker an hour's drive away. It was a little single serving pop top can. "This guy is from Germany, he uses the real spicing!" he told me. I got out some crackers and a couple of ginger ales. I knew this kind of food would launch a lot of nostalgia with him. So, we pop the top and my cat materializes. He's a big tom. He's already purring because he considers himself to be very dangerous and he wants to reassure us. He trots up and plants his front feet on the coffee table like a bartender. He is laser focused on the can. I push him off the table and tell him it's not for him. He accepts this good naturedly, still purring. He goes around the table and stands up again, this time he reaches for the can. It's not for you, it's not cat food, I tell him. He sniffs elaborately and mimes, "Is, too!" My Dad and I have a good chuckle. "He is sure it's cat food!" Hahaha! "How is it different?" my then teenaged daughter asks. She's still like that even though she is thirty four and a half, now. I grab a cracker and quickly grace it with livery goodness. "Let me show you!" I suggest but she is already distancing herself. My Dad and I sat around for an hour talking and eating German. Max, the cat sat with us. He frowned the whole time and kept staring at the little can. His nose twitched occasionally. Wurst case scenario, for him.