Generally speaking, I don’t feed the cats. It works like this: The cats come to me, and I, the Dr. Doolittle of the house, relay the message to their mom. I didn’t have human children for numerous reasons; I’m not about to have a couple of furry felines dictate my schedule in a sadly dog-free home.
Sometimes mom is taking a nap, however.
It begins with Tunie, aka Petunia, the black one. Tunie missed most of God’s seminar on friendship and guile. As in, pretend to like your master even if its not dinnertime, in order to build a rapport. All Tunie learned was the swishing by the legs, and the Siamese-sourced meow, at annoying decibels and tone. Sometimes she’ll draw a single claw down your calf, like chalk on a board. “I’m dying of hunger, and I can’t pour it myself,” she says. I, the alpha and only male in the house, represent food, and only food to her. I suppose I should admire Tunie for her honesty, her transparent shallowness.
I often ignore her routine, especially lately. It is our fault that Tunie has spent a lifetime grazing on a 24-hour buffet on the floor; now she can’t graze any more. Because of her kidneys, her sister Pepper can no longer have dry food. No bowl sharing. So I ignore Tunie’s pleas for indulgence, more often than not. I’m not a waiter, this isn’t Burger King, and she’s not going to have it her way. “Hold on a minute,” I say, “Let me finish this and I’ll get to you. Go take a nap or something.”
When attempts to get me on my feet and moving towards the kitchen fail, Tunie sends in the ringer. Her completely guileless, sweet sister. My baby. Her clawless paws tap at me, she stretches to get my attention. Big eyes. Pepper’s innocent face asks, “Um, dad, might it be lunchtime? My tummy is rumbly.” Okay.
Food has to be precisely prepared. Pepper will not eat out of any bowls but the black ones. A dollop of K/D, mixed in with a dollop of I/D. The texture has to be right. Into my bathroom – their hangout – it goes. Pepper waits patiently. The sing-song, high-pitched call, “Canned cat food, Pepper!” to encourage her inside. She’s not only finicky, she’s dainty. I almost feel that I should place a napkin by the bowl. Door half shut; Pepper likes her privacy, and it’s a shield from the sound of the infinitely more desirable dry cat food being poured for Tunie. Have to make sure to cover the bottom of the bowl, or “top it off.” For if Tunie sees the bottom of the bowl – the bowl is empty. (as an aside, neither one of these two will eat “human” food. You could leave a whole salmon or a whole chicken on the table, and it would still be whole in the morning. And they’re not litter-mates).
Lo and behold, Pepper comes out a minute later, food pushed around with her snout and barely tasted. She wasn’t hungry, really; merely an unwitting accomplice in the whole affair. Her expensive food seems to begin decaying the moment she sashays away from the bowl. And her sister, who I rescued from a shelter when she reached through her cage’s bars for me, she just wanted to graze. Tunie inhales a few nuggets and walks away. I will return to a state of invisibility until she’s noticed that I’ve whisked her bowl away.
A dog, though… a dog will hope to be fed twice a day, sure. It will ask for a meal, of course. A dog will then eat what’s put in front of him, and be thankful. The appreciation will shine in his eyes, and manifest in the wagging of the tail. No fuss, no trouble, no petulance. But also no negotiation to orchestrate, no dance to be danced, no game to be played.
Strangely enough, I think I’ll miss all of this someday.
