No, wait, come back! I had valid reasons for listening to it, like, er, the traffic reports! That's it - the traffic reports. (Phew - think I got away with it. Street cred restored.) Anyhoo, they have a regular feature (er, that is, I *assume* it's a regular feature, ahem), called 'factoids' with little bits of trivia and the like. One of them was the definition of the word 'to groke', which means to avidly watch somebody eating in the hope of getting any leftovers.
That's Doris, that is.
At every meal time she sits up to the table, resting her chin on the table top waiting for an opportunity to pounce like some sort of furry velociraptor. That's not all. She also has an uncanny sense of smell that even works through plastic.
I emptied the kitchen bin and put the tied up black bag outside the back door ready to be put into the wheely bin when I went out with Barney the dog. In the space of two minutes she managed to locate the remains of a chicken carcass in the depths of the bag and rip a hole in the correct spot to extract said bird. She also had a go at another bag containing some out of date margerine and some frozen mince pies left over from Christmas.
So, there you have it, Doris the cat is officially a grade A, first class Groke with honours. I rest my case.
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