Fancy Feast

January 11, 2014

When your nostrils feel as though they are on fire, it is time to change out the litter in the cat box. Inevitably the cat will immediately climb on in and use the pristine box, as soon as you swap-out the old litter. Cats are pretty simple to accommodate, you can toss out some dry food, and a giant bowl of fresh water and leave them for days on end, right.

Incorrect.

The two black and white lookalike litter mates, who are still in the kitten stage, terrorize the pom poms on the winter hat, left parked on the diningroom table (as of this morning, sans one pom,) screech around the room after the lazer I brought over to tease them, while on feeding duty in the evenings. They tip over chairs, scoot rugs across the room, fling rubber bands off the countertops, read the mail, open and peruse the Netflix dvd’s, pop the yoga ball, spy on the neighbors within view of the front and northwest side windows, and bother the ancient cat who needs special attention. I sit, on the soiled green rug in the kitchen, petting and providing Tellington Touch to the elderly cat, while the other two circle me like the stew bowl situated atop a bonfire on the vast barren prairie. The litterboxes are overflowing each day, as though they squeeze out another mound, to defy the caregiver. Water dishes bone dry, food plates cleaner than when they were removed from the dishwasher. Nope, never seen a speck of food before now, we are starved.

The tub faucet has to be turned on, to a faint dribble for the senior of the bunch. He laps into the drips for eternity. Soon discovered I could clean litterboxes and feed the Terrible Two’s while waiting for his thirst to be quenched. Wet footprints indicate he is satiated and may want another stab at the soft food, mixed with fiber powder and a pill. “Finicky” doesn’t do him justice. He could very well sniff three varieties before choosing one that suits his taste that particular feeding time. Halfway thru the dinner, he meows his discontent, and another can is popped-open. “L” has the humans well-trained, like the Lawrence Welk dancers. Takes a lot of practice.

The three felines must hear the crunch of snow under my boots for they are perched on the countertop and standing next to the back door as it swings wide into the kitchen. If I am later than usual, the piercing “stink” eyes of betrayal stare me down. And I live to tell the story.