Once again you people have turned on each other in the absence of new web content here on Bitegeist. Let me see if I can steer your creative energy to a new topic - eating in the company of animals.

Felis silvestris catus (AKA the domestic house cat) has been associated with humans for at least 9,500 years. At least that's what Wikipedia tells me. Wiki also tells me this about our feline companions: "A skilled predator, the cat is known to hunt over 1,000 species for food." Egyptians were the first humans to domesticate cats so blame any of your problems with Felix or Sylvester or Black Cindy on them.

Canis lupus familiaris (AKA the dog) has been knocking around with humans much longer. Archeaological studies have put dogs and humans together as early as 12,000 BC. More than 800 dog breeds - our watered down versions of the wolf - are currently recognized by the world's kennel clubs.

I share my homes with two domesticated animals. Hazel (our feline) is classified by the vet as a run of the mill domestic shorthair, but we believe she's a cross between a Russian Blue and a Munchkin. Sooli (our canine) is a traditional bonemouth horsecoat shar pei. I use the word "domesticated" somewhat loosely as both of them committed the same high sin this week ... they ate from my plate.

On Tuesday, I went home to have lunch with Sooli. "Have lunch with Sooli" means that I intended to spend my midday break in the company of my dog. I planned to prepare a sandwich, sit on the patio, and watch her chase the birds and squirrels. Her bowl of food is always full as we believe in giving our dog the responsibility of monitoring her own food intake. You can't do that with cocker spaniels. They have no personal controls. I say that from experience. God rest your greedy little soul, Honey.

So I assembled my lunch (sliced pot roast and gouda on a cheese roll) and walked to back of the house to open the door so that my hands would be free to carry my plate and drink. I returned to find Sooli with my sandwich in her mouth like a frisbee. My mouth flew open in shock and so did hers, the sandwich falling to the floor. Sooli knew the depth of her transgression, but I told her about it anyway. And what did she do? She assumed a somewhat submissive posture - dropped her ears and wiggled her body in and out of the letter S. But the entire time I admonished her, she talked smack. She rounded that fresh little mouth like a bagel and half yodeled/half growled at me. And the more I wagged my finger at her, the harder she wiggled and the more she had to say. So I picked up the sandwich, sat at the bar, and tried to ignore her. And, yes, I ate the sandwich.

Later that night, I was nibbling on some leftover chili and cool ranch doritos. I walked to the fridge to get a bottle of water and, when I returned, I found Hazel standing in my chair with her front paws on the breakfast bar - her face buried in my bowl. And when I yelled at her, she simply looked up at me, blinked once, and licked her lips. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to scold a cat when she's sporting a little tomato sauce mustache? So I picked her up, kissed her chili-flavored lips, and proceeded to finish my snack.

This is what happens when we share our homes with animals. We end up sharing everything with them. Our joys and sorrows. Our couches and beds. And, when our backs are turned ... our meals. Despite thousands of years of domestication, the heart of the wolf still beats in Sooli's narrow black chest. And even though she is generations removed from the wild cats of the Near East who are her ancestors, Hazel patrols her world with the spirit of a predator.