Half a loaf of rye bread was sitting on my kitchen counter for four or five days, and I decided to chuck it away this evening. I will buy a loaf of fresh one tomorrow morning. Packed in a paper bag that was wrapped in a plastic bag, it was still edible, and so I wanted to see what the street cats would do with it. I took it down the street to a place where four garbage cans can be found. It was dark already, but the cats spotted me at once. They also saw that I was carrying something to toss away. Five or six of them rushed toward me as I was breaking the bread into smaller pieces and throwing them onto the cobblestones next to the cans. Each cat grabbed a chunk at once and dashed to an empty lot overgrown with weeds right behind the cans. I threw the last few chunks on the ground and walked back to my front door. One of the cats was already back before I closed the door. It grabbed one more chunk of bread, and then it ran away once again. Other cats will follow soon. All of them would gobble up their bread as quickly as possible before returning for more. And it was nothing but stale rye bread, which cats living as household pets would not even look at. On my way back to the kitchen, I kept shaking my head. Hunger. Yet another lesson the street cats could teach me in my dotage. Good old hunger, which I have not felt even once in my seventy years minus a few months.