Athena T. Cat is not happy. In fact, she is currently stretched out on the floor, feet in the air, in the process of dying of hunger despite having just eaten breakfast, as well as having had her bit of milk in her bowl, and the last drops of milk from my bowl. She is . . . the World’s Fluffiest Starving-to-Death Housecat.
Now, lest you feel a pico-liter of sympathy for the calico currently in her twice-daily death agonies, be aware that she eats better than her owner does. Excuse me, not owner, chief feeder and lap provider, litterbox cleaner, and mess-remover. She gets a special, not inexpensive, super-high-protein grain-free kibble made from chicken and rabbit. I’m a member of the legume-of-the-month club, having aged out of the ramen-of-the-month club. She also gets tooth-cleaning treats in the evenings. Athena tried the chewy treats, with rather distressing results. At least, distressing to the carpet-cleaner-in-chief.
I’m convinced that Athena has a pocket watch hidden under her hair coat. 90 minutes before feeding time, she comes marching into my office. “Mow.”
“Mow.” She moves closer, sitting and watching me. “Mow.”
“It’s 90 minutes. You are still early.” Type type type.
She moves closer until she is sitting on my foot. “Mow.”
“Shoo.” If I stop typing, she bolts off to the room with her food dish. Then she comes back and gives me a dirty look. Ditto if I get up for a drink or to get rid of drinks. By fifteen minutes before food, she’s in constant motion, absolutely convinced that she is about to diiiiiiIIIIEEEEEEEE of starvation before 1700. My friend JY can tell you. He’s heard her cries of famishment over the phone. Which is pretty good, since she’s not a Siamese.
Recently, I notice that the A/C thermostat has been set lower, and when I wake up my laptop, there are catnip websites and gourmet fish places on the browsing history. I wonder if I should be getting worried about something like this: