Not off food, just off his.
William's is delicious.
And William, who must be wondering when this invader is going to stop growing, no longer puts up any resistance to the theft.
Frank knows he's not supposed to do it - but the animal in him, which admittedly might be a substantial part, can't help it. He sprints through the house, conscious we're soon to be tailing him, and dives into the bowel, mouth open, saliva at the ready.
William is not stupid, he can hear the approach. The speed of paw on floorboard, it's distinctive sound, is enough on its own. He leaves it until the last possible moment, and then springs back, exactly like a cat shitting itself.
The race begins. I'm usually no more than five seconds behind him, but Frank's speed eating is world-class now.
We rely on the speed of sound.
The deepest sound I can muster (I'm informed a deep voice is essential - and although I do not possess one, if I try really hard I can approximate manliness), is my first offering. 'NOOOOOOOOOO, FRAAAAANK!,' I instruct.
I may as well be saying, 'Dear boy, did you see XFactor last night?'
So I stamp - which comes more naturally, thanks to an appropriate weight.
I've seen Jess go through the same routine. I can say with certainty that we look and sound stupid and it has no affect.
The jaw movement is frenetic and primal by the time of arrival.
Bowl bounces around off his massive nose as he attempts to get into those hard to reach places.
He's prized away, chucked onto the floor, and as he struts off (past his own, brimming, bowl of dog food), arse in our face, continues to ignore threat and instruction.
'I've no idea what you're talking about, and it almost certainly wasn't me who did it.'
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