Use this sentence in an excerpt from a novel with talking animals:
"He stole my cheese! That fur ball stole a piece of my cheese!"

I never thought I'd kill him. Nobody else had doubted it wouldn't come to that, observing our birth positions, but somehow I'd managed to convince myself I could defeat the inevitable conclusion designed by nature. But in the end, I wound up completing fate's path. It was nature— not my own design— I take credit for nothing of the actual events. I was cat, he— mouse. And therefore, all amounts of effort to battle fate, in the end availed to nothing. It was all hopeless.
But I'd tried. We were companions once— once, long ago. Before I ate him. I would let him ride atop my sleek, black, furry back as we made the daily trek down to the duck pond to watch the sunrise, and then wake up that lazy good-for-nothing of a rooster, to allow Farmer McNeigh to go on thinking he had some use in him, and avoid killing him. We were civil, then— friendly, you could say. There is a particular bond that comes from a mutual enemy— in our case, Nature— and a surprising comradery in a mutual battle for survival. In the dark times, those bad old days, we were partners, friends. But we only remained so as long as the world remained a dark, harsh, and cold battle for the living. Funny old world, isn't it?
Then it happened— the springtime of history, the dawn of a new era. Farmer McNeigh was murdered in a rainstorm. He always was a fast driver. Rain is unforgiving. Nellie, the white mare, swears she could smell the burned rubber skidding on asphalt— even though it happened nearly 53 miles away from Greendale Farm.
Liberation, let me tell you, is exhilarating. And just a little bit dangerous. At least, for a cat. McNeigh was a widower— and hated, too. It was perfect. Nobody wanted the farm. Nobody, it seems, even knew about it. Left to our own devices, we farm animals prospered. At any rate, most of us did. I, on the other hand, frankly still miss my daily back scratches and bowl of milk. And that's enough to make any feline irritable. As the others celebrated and gave thanks, preparing plans for authority and management of our own personal democracy, I did what I do best— I sulked along the edges.
None of the others seemed too pleased about my tacit possession of McNeigh's farmhouse, but seeing as nobody could bring themselves to confront me directly, it remained mine and mine alone. And besides which, it made the most sense it would go to me— everybody else was too scared to enter the house, like it had some kind of malaise taint after housing a human.
Isolation is a curious thing. It will either swell your ego so big it poisons your whole being or shrink it down so small your eyes bug out and your lungs pop. Either way, something vague inside you dies: whether it be from lack of outside compassion that your heart attempts to make up for with too much love for yourself, or simply from lack of external reminders that the rest of the world is insufferably idiotic. I did not do well alone.
And then one day, I suddenly wasn't. I admit truthfully I was downright startled to hear a voice in the kitchen on that foggy morning.
Creeping silently, as I am wont to do even without effort, I neared the kitchen and watched, unnoticed, from the shadowed doorway.
It was him.
The mouse was muttering nervously to himself as he skittered around the pantry. He had something white in his hands. Cheese! A hunk of cheese that I had been saving for that never decided upon, never truly to be celebrated, future special occasion.
He stole my cheese! That fur ball stole a piece of my cheese!
And in that moment, I hated him. I don't know why. I simply abhorred him. This place was mine. Not only had he trespassed— he had stolen. We had nothing now: no link to join us. No bond to keep us. He no longer deserved to live. In one mighty leap, I pounced.
Then I ate him.
He was tough, like loathing, and tasted bitter as loneliness.

Loathing and lonely. . . loathing and lonely. Does one loathe because he is lonely? Or is one lonely because he loathed?