Our cat has gained weight over the winter months and I am not happy about it at all. In fact, whatever her name used to be, the only name anyone calls her now is Fatcat. I will say, “could someone please feed Fatcat to shut her the hell up.”
This is what our life with Fatcat is like now. First let me say this, I know it’s bad to call her Fatcat, but at this point I could care less about her self esteem issues and her potential future drug problems. I call bullshit on all that anyway. I was trying to focus on a serious project a few days ago and in the midst of almost complete silence I hear plop plop plop to be followed by incredibly loud meow meow meow. That stopped, but only momentarily. Plop plop plop. Meow meow meow. Sure, it was a room away, but her fat feet plopping around on the old wood floors and the echo in her extra large body cavity with its cavernous meow chamber made the noise almost unbearable. Meow indeed.
At some point we had a nice cat. Bosco I think his name was. He left for Chicago to pursue a career in the arts. I think that’s what the kids told me. The neighbor kid with a mild case of Asburgers Syndrome told me once Bosco got hit my an ice cream truck. Life is confusing.
If you feed Fatcat, she will shut up for hours at a time. That is our dilemma. You see it now for yourself, don’t you? She is fat, and her plopping loudly around is only enhanced by her fatness, but her silence is purchased by feeding her, which enhances her weight, which goes on and on. Not quite the circle of life, maybe the circle of high cholesterol and an early onset of kitty diabetes, leading to some sort of traumatic, yet kind of hysterical obese cat heart attack. I’m not saying I will grab a snack and watch, but after months, quite possibly years of plop plop, meow meow, payback could be quite the welcome retreat.
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