As we speak my cat is lying atop his empty bowl, glaring at me from the other side of the room.
I know that he is glaring because his normal 'saucer eyes' have turned to slits.
Someone, *cough* has forgotten to refill his Fancy Feast container, and he is NOT happy.
I've always been a dog person, until last year when I got Boots. He was just a kitten then and so cute that when the neighbor girl came to my house and told me the story about how he had been abandoned in a closet of an apartment building and needed a home, I couldn't resist.
Cats were easy, I convinced my husband. And he went along with it until the night Boots slept in our room and mistook his toe for a shiny mouse. There were a flurry of curse words spouted off in the middle of the night and Boots was never allowed in our room after 11 PM again.
Aside from that and the scratching (oh, does the scratching ever end?) Boots has been a pretty chill addition to the family. He follows me around and watches what I'm doing, he steals my make up brushes, and he cuddles up to Shawn during Mad Men (On more than one occasion I've got my husband giving the cat kitty kisses when he didn't think I was looking). He's been a part of my family for a year now.
So why do I go to so much trouble to accommodate him?
It turns out Boots, the feline that was abandoned in the closet just one short year ago, is a snob.
I've gone through every type of cat food there is, and when he finds one he likes, that's the ONLY kind he will eat. If that type of food is not served at the same time, in the same way, I get a well-timed meow and a look that would melt metal.
All fine and good except SOMEONE, I think my mother, gave the cat Fancy Feast a few months ago. Now he's too good for Sheba and don't get me started on Whiskers. And Gravy Sensations? Not so sensational.
What's worse is that he seems to have a preference every day about which type of Fancy Feast he desires. Somedays its tuna, others its chicken, but it's always with the label Primavera or Faire.
"The cat eats better than I do," my husband complains as I toss him a plate of half-frozen tator tots. I inform my husband that he's welcome to join Boots in his cuisine. It would make it easier on cooking and shopping.
Anyways, so yesterday I find myself LITERALLY reading off the labels of cat food to the f'ing cat, waiting for a responsive meow.
"Grilled Chicken with Delectable Vegetables?"
"Choice Cut Salmon with Garden Greens?"
Still no response.
When I pull out the can marked Tuna Florentine he begins purring so loudly I think he's having a seizure.
I'm not sure if he understands, but I can't risk it. I open it and pour it into his bowl, hoping for that this day at least, I've made the right choice.
He weighs 14 pounds. I really shouldn't worry.
But it's the guilt. That F'ing guilt of those cat eyes across the room, reminding me that he was a closet kitty a year ago.
And now he's a foody.
"Don't judge me," I say, as he seems to sneer at the Big Mac I'm having for dinner. "If you had simpler tastes I could afford better food myself."
He blinks at me and sits beside his bowl, waiting for his next meal.
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