Lessons In Stalking: Adjusting to Life With Cats Read Online Free
Author: Dena Harris
20 seconds, and then dump it…where?
Back into the food dish? Oh no, too easy.
No, the watery mess must be poured onto the food mat, in the exact place where she first discovered the delightful delicacy of kitty-chow con aqua.
If we pour it back in the dish, she won’t eat it. If she doesn’t see us dump the food in the water (I tried to save time and just wet the food at the sink), she won’t eat it. Her Highness is very particular. And though I try to resist, I can’t stand to see her not eat so I give in.
This isn’t the first time I’ve caved. Early on, the cat insisted on stalking her food. This wouldn’t have been so bad if she were an outdoor or barn cat with an ample supply of field mice and squirrels to keep her busy. What made the situation awkward is that she is an indoor cat, and the food she was stalking was IAMS ® Indoor Cat Formula at almost fifteen dollars per two-pound bag.
She refused to eat the food unless we threw it across the floor, allowing her the opportunity to leap and pounce before savagely ripping the kibble to pieces. Sometimes she’d bat the kibbles across the floor and chase them. Other times, she’d run and hide beneath a kitchen chair, tail flinching to and fro, planning the moment of her attack.
My husband has no patience for this sort of behavior. If I dare complain that I am tired of throwing food across the 41 floor or staring at wet cat chow on the mat, I am harassed with, “Well, what do you expect? You baby her way too much.
If you just leave the food in the dish she’ll eventually get hungry and eat it.”
And he has a point. I mean, what’s wrong with me that I bend so easily to the will of a fifteen-pound cat?
The answer is simple. I do it because she’s cute. And she purrs really loud when I dump the food in the water, and even louder when she sees me scoop it onto the mat.
Seriously, how many chances in life do you get to make someone that happy?
When I point this out my husband just stares at me.
“You’re nuts,” is the only counterargument I receive. From this I conclude I have won our war of verbal sparring. In triumph, I toss the cat a kibble across the floor.
Still, I admit I’d like to be able to just pour the cat food in the bowl and move on with life. My husband insists he can help me wean the cat toward accepting our feeding rules; those being that the cat food goes in the bowl, dry, and stays there. Needless to say, the cat is not pleased with these new rules, which she vocalizes loudly.
“Mrow?” (Translation: What’s going on? Why is the food in my dish?)
“Mrow? Rowr? Mrow?” (Hello? Anyone? Hello?)
“Mrow? Rowr, meow. Mo-ow??” (Lady, get it in gear. I don’t eat out of a dish. Re-mem-ber??)
Receiving no response she resorts to bad language.
“ROWR-FSST?!?”
At this I throw a pleading glance at my husband. He doesn’t even look up from his paper. “Ignore it,” he says, turning the page.
I do ignore it. At least until he leaves the house. The cat and I both watch him pull his car down the drive. She looks at me.
“Wait for it,” I say. My husband honks his horn goodbye.
The cat looks at me again, ears perked. I give her the nod. “Yup, we’re clear,” I say. “Let’s go for it.”
And so I spend the next ten minutes feeding a deliriously happy cat a combination of wet cat food and hallway dust bunnies. The dust bunnies are an unintentional side effect of eating off the hardwood floors. My cleaning needs some work.
But I’m not going to dust my floors just for a cat.
I have to take a stand somewhere.
-7-
Incoming!
The cat has discovered a love of pasta. She prefers Mueller’s ® pasta shells, uncooked, of the medium-sized variety.
I inadvertently began her love affair with pasta by reaching into the kitchen cabinet for some soup. My elbow bumped an open box and dry pasta shells went scattering and bouncing across the tile floor.
I started, the cat jumped, and then we looked across the room at one
Back into the food dish? Oh no, too easy.
No, the watery mess must be poured onto the food mat, in the exact place where she first discovered the delightful delicacy of kitty-chow con aqua.
If we pour it back in the dish, she won’t eat it. If she doesn’t see us dump the food in the water (I tried to save time and just wet the food at the sink), she won’t eat it. Her Highness is very particular. And though I try to resist, I can’t stand to see her not eat so I give in.
This isn’t the first time I’ve caved. Early on, the cat insisted on stalking her food. This wouldn’t have been so bad if she were an outdoor or barn cat with an ample supply of field mice and squirrels to keep her busy. What made the situation awkward is that she is an indoor cat, and the food she was stalking was IAMS ® Indoor Cat Formula at almost fifteen dollars per two-pound bag.
She refused to eat the food unless we threw it across the floor, allowing her the opportunity to leap and pounce before savagely ripping the kibble to pieces. Sometimes she’d bat the kibbles across the floor and chase them. Other times, she’d run and hide beneath a kitchen chair, tail flinching to and fro, planning the moment of her attack.
My husband has no patience for this sort of behavior. If I dare complain that I am tired of throwing food across the 41 floor or staring at wet cat chow on the mat, I am harassed with, “Well, what do you expect? You baby her way too much.
If you just leave the food in the dish she’ll eventually get hungry and eat it.”
And he has a point. I mean, what’s wrong with me that I bend so easily to the will of a fifteen-pound cat?
The answer is simple. I do it because she’s cute. And she purrs really loud when I dump the food in the water, and even louder when she sees me scoop it onto the mat.
Seriously, how many chances in life do you get to make someone that happy?
When I point this out my husband just stares at me.
“You’re nuts,” is the only counterargument I receive. From this I conclude I have won our war of verbal sparring. In triumph, I toss the cat a kibble across the floor.
Still, I admit I’d like to be able to just pour the cat food in the bowl and move on with life. My husband insists he can help me wean the cat toward accepting our feeding rules; those being that the cat food goes in the bowl, dry, and stays there. Needless to say, the cat is not pleased with these new rules, which she vocalizes loudly.
“Mrow?” (Translation: What’s going on? Why is the food in my dish?)
“Mrow? Rowr? Mrow?” (Hello? Anyone? Hello?)
“Mrow? Rowr, meow. Mo-ow??” (Lady, get it in gear. I don’t eat out of a dish. Re-mem-ber??)
Receiving no response she resorts to bad language.
“ROWR-FSST?!?”
At this I throw a pleading glance at my husband. He doesn’t even look up from his paper. “Ignore it,” he says, turning the page.
I do ignore it. At least until he leaves the house. The cat and I both watch him pull his car down the drive. She looks at me.
“Wait for it,” I say. My husband honks his horn goodbye.
The cat looks at me again, ears perked. I give her the nod. “Yup, we’re clear,” I say. “Let’s go for it.”
And so I spend the next ten minutes feeding a deliriously happy cat a combination of wet cat food and hallway dust bunnies. The dust bunnies are an unintentional side effect of eating off the hardwood floors. My cleaning needs some work.
But I’m not going to dust my floors just for a cat.
I have to take a stand somewhere.
-7-
Incoming!
The cat has discovered a love of pasta. She prefers Mueller’s ® pasta shells, uncooked, of the medium-sized variety.
I inadvertently began her love affair with pasta by reaching into the kitchen cabinet for some soup. My elbow bumped an open box and dry pasta shells went scattering and bouncing across the tile floor.
I started, the cat jumped, and then we looked across the room at one
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