Riski swallowed the fish. It was so fresh, so good, so flippy-floppy and alive. How could he forget? How had he ever gotten used to the fish those humans gave him, old fish, dead fish, fish that couldn’t compare with the fish that he caught.
But it didn’t do to dwell on it. Because there it was.
The flavor that was left on Riski’s forked tongue, like the kind you get when you eat your favorite desert of rhubarb or cheesecake, or whatever it is you like, the flavor that demanded another!
Riski slipped beneath the waves, spearing another little fish and gulping it down.
The world was his oyster now. The humans couldn’t limit his diet to old, flavorless farmed fish. Now he had a limitless supply of fish, so fresh it still flopped on his talons.