It turns out there's an easy, surefire way to get a delectable, warm, moist bucket full of oozy, gooey goodness. One must simply mope a bit in the morning, neglect breakfast for an hour or so, and try really hard not to drink despite one's FarmWife's persistent efforts to offer an assortment of cool, warm, and tepid water. If you can meditate on slowing one's capillary refill rate or quieting one's gurgling gut, it's all the better! There's that delicate line between earning a tasty mash and getting a bunch of injections and a ride to the hospital, so one must be careful. Eating breakfast—eventually—is advised. Pooping is essential if you want to stay out of the vet clinic.
FarmWife made a nervous call to the vet this morning after she noticed me lifting one bite of breakfast, then standing—for a full ten minutes—with the stems hanging from my lips. No mastication took place. "He's not himself," she said. The receptionist was suitably concerned, and they have agreed to keep a very, very close eye on me. I did eventually eat, walk about, poop, and even drink a little. They are still worried, though less so.
I hope that means more smooshy meals.