I've mentioned tuna here before. I was just down in the cafeteria and glancing over the ready-made sandwiches, I spied tuna. Kind of a downer. I used up my last can the day Bonnie died, getting her to drink something. Last food she ever had.
Before that, last year, it was trying to interest Max in food again. I even got to the point of pureeing it for him because the tumor at the back of his mouth made chewing and swallowing obviously an ordeal.
It took me a long time to get to like, or even stomach, tuna. I think I was 12 or 13 before I'd eat the stuff. In fairly short order, I took to it, and while it never became one of my top faves, it got to be something I'd look forward to about once a week. When I moved out and was losing weight successfully for the first time, I remember eating quite a lot of it.
The sight of a stack of tuna cans now will be forever associated with the knowledge that I had a cat who was so sick as to have stopped eating. The realizing I probably had a beloved pet in the process of dying. I'll eat tuna again. I'll even buy it. But I'll never again be able to do so without seeing it as something with darker connotations.