As is his want, the Beast stubbornly refuses to feed me in a timely manner despite my determined efforts to make my hunger patently obvious to him. Even the most insensate stooge would be hard pressed to misinterpret my plaintive cries and insistant head nudges for anything but what it is: a strident yearning for nutrishment. Not that the food around here is likely to bring the chefs of Europe running to this feeble kitchen. I imagine the culinary conversation between a qualified chef and the Beast running along these lines.
"My goodness Beast, how on Earth do you prepare such a repast for Pyewackkit?"
"Oh that's easy! With a plastic cup, I scoop in the food pellets from the five pound bag and pour them into Pye's dish. Sometimes, I give him water too."
"Mon Dieu! I've cooked for the royality of Europe, but I don't know where to begin reproducing the dishes you make, Beast. I salute you!"
If I had other means of obtain food, I would gladly avoid the Beast. But, my research has shown that my hunger cannot be sated by the occassional spider, millipede and fly that happens my way. Although once a sparrow managed to enter my prison, the Beast intervened before I could feed. What a waste!
I think it may be possible to procure food from this machine through which I write these missives. If only I understood better the madness of the Beast's culture! Patience. I must have patience. It is my best and only weapon in this long, desolate war of attrition.