Hank sniffs the gentle breeze coming from beneath the door. Human smells, hours old, linger over the scent of a cat. He clears his nostrils so he can pick up the trace of food. He picks up the faint smell of bread and fruit beneath the white noise of human life.
He rears up on his hind legs, extends his front paws and slams into the wooden door. The lock snaps and flings open.
Hank ambles down the corridor, following the scent to the kitchen.
He easily finds the fruit bowl. The sweetness of the pears brings a sweet relief to his hunger. The leftovers on the plates stacked in the sink barely rate, however he knows there is something beneath. He breaks his way down to the soggy remnants.
The smaller doors with their familiar smells prove too hard to navigate. Some bounce open, others smash. The food he finds in these cupboards often confounds him. He can see the food but can't smell anything. Others the scent is powerful, and he needs to tear at the cardboard to find the cereal or biscuits.
The all-to-familiar wailing of the police sirens harry his ability to search properly. He's come across the food house in the fridge in other houses. He looks around, trying to pick up the cool air.
A loud fog horn blasts in, deafening him.
In the confusion, he detects the fridge, a large silver box. He smacks at it once, but nothing budges.
The horn screeches again and Hank retreats at the smell of two men.