The way Huck reacts when I open the cabinet with the food in it, you'd think we were starving him to death.
He dashes into the kitchen, then jogs back to the office, weaving between my ankles, hoping I'll trip. As I start pouring the food into the bowl, he will thrust his head forward and start crunching, oblivious to the stream of kibble pouring onto the back of his head and streaming off his ears.
I will then go out into the dining room, where the other food bowl is, and top it up, too. It's usually still more than half full, proof that he wasn't particularly hungry, but as Huck hears the sound of kibble being poured, he comes running out of the office to try and get some of the fresh chow out here. Once I'm done pouring, he's done eating. It's not so much the food he gets excited about, as it is the act of being fed.
He's growing like a weed, and still rangy; he has yet to grow into his snowshoe feet and he's already only a few inches away from being able to grab doorknobs between his paws. I'm afraid I'm going to wake up one morning with him trying to get my head in his mouth so he can drag me up a tree on the Serengeti...