Hand-washing seems to be all the rage right now. Let me ask you, my little string grabbers, doesn’t it concern you that people seem to suddenly be aware of the practice? Your fave feline blogger has always insisted on frequent hand-washing before and after her requisite belly-rubs. One can never be too careful. Now, onto today’s topic: food.
I never see it but I know it happens. Mother gets a squint-eyed look from cashiers at the pet food store over the cheap wet food she buys for me. Heck, one of my pet-sitters even brought her own can of food for me after seeing cans of Friskies on our shelf. She, too, was horrified that I was being fed the cheap stuff. But here’s what they don’t know: it’s what I was raised on in the decade of my life before I was adopted by my forever family. I refuse or upchuck everything else.
My fur-parents tried – oh, how they tried – to feed me a higher quality food. They waited out my refusal to eat. (There’s always kibble at the ready.) They attempted to convince me – and my late pal Spice – to switch to more-expensive-with-better-ingredients pate. But we held firm. If we could have, we would have made tiny picket signs and paced the length of the kitchen, demanding a return to our regular rations. Instead, we stood in solidarity, a union of two screaming our displeasure, while the pricier pate went to waste.
With only four teeth, soft food was a necessity for Spice. His health also began to fail and he lost weight. I initially refused to drink water so wet food was recommended for me. So, back to Friskies they went, for both our sakes.
There was a lot of experimentation. Chunky? No siree. With gravy? Not good. Tasty Treasures? Forget it. Plain ol’ chicken pate was perfect for my palate. Yes, it’s like feeding me McDonald’s for every meal but what can I say? I have simple tastes, I like what I like and who doesn’t like McDonald’s fries?
I may have previously mentioned that my table manners have been described as those of a wolverine. It’s true that I like to take away a selection of my dinner, either dry or wet, and chew it with an open mouth in a hurried fashion. This technique developed from necessity in my previous life when competition for food was fierce. There was no time to lay a napkin on one’s lap or take dainty bites of pate. So, forgive me if I’m not a prissy socialite at mealtime but I make up for it in other ways: my loud and beautiful soprano singing voice and my general ability to amuse and delight.
I do, however, suffer the occasional indignity. I overheard one of the painters who were here last week giggling at the size of my girth. Apparently, it’s amusing to watch me waddle down the hall. Well, to heck with you, lady! I’m a big, beautiful, confident cat with love in her life. I will take no mockery of my full figure lying down. Okay, that’s not true. I take almost everything lying down.
So, the next time you see my humans stocking up on cheap food for me, don’t judge them. They’re only doing their duty, making sure that I eat. I was raised on the cheapest food on the shelf and it’s not their fault that I didn’t develop a fine palate. My first decade of life and dinners remains a mystery that I can hardly remember. My second decade, with all the love and affection I’m receiving every day, is my favourite.
Yours until the cows come home. (Please keep the cows outside!)