Frankly, I could care less about hunting. I’m not really a pouncer—I’m more of a sit-and-ponder-the universe sort of kitty and for the thinking I do, especially about this nutty family, one needs lots of rest.
And leftover turkey, such as what I got at last year’s Thanksgiving.
And malt paste. That stuff may be what could be called a transit gel for elimination, if you get my drift, and no, I have never, as far as I know, had a hair ball, but I love that goo the way papa loves Armagnac and chocolate. If I am cool and just lie back on the carpet or hang on real tight to a rug or something when mama insists on brushing my very minimally-shedding pelt, then she gives me an inch of caramel malt.
But as they say, if she gives me an inch, I could take a mile. That stuff is like homemade toffee that chefs pour over those custards that sort of melts down the sides and makes a little pool on the plate and then you lick it off. Well, I lick it off. That is, if I find a plate that isn’t already licked, but I’m not allowed sweets or chocolate or anything resembling human desserts because it makes me sick. Or could. Mama gave me a finger of sweet yogurt once and I about died one of my lives and went to heaven with pleasure.
Eating is pretty regulated around here.
Papa says that the best part of eating is being hungry and so they don’t snack on things or munch on little no-value goodies all day long or drink Diet Cokes from morning to night. Breakfast is breakfast and lunch is lunch and dinner is dinner and that’s it.
And as I mentioned, I’m looking mean and lean right now, thanks to this ridiculous diet mama has put me on. And it’s not easy for her, because I myow and squeak and rub up against all the furniture and look as if I’m spraying but I’m not, really, as I have no spray to spray, but I look so cute when I do it that mama wants to slip me some slivers of anything and it’s hard for her not to. And then papa says, “This cat is not losing weight!” and she says, “Well, then, YOU do it, you measure her 70 g of food and try to resist her cuteness and let’s see what YOU do with the diet.” And then he says, “No, no it’s fine, it’s all working well and I know you’re doing a great job.” And then he doesn’t have to resist my charms…
I wonder if mama would roast me a turkey for the rest of the year? Like those wild and wonderful grandkids who came to Thanksgiving last time, I am a sucker for a drumstick.
