This blog post is about how I spoil my cats.
If you aren’t a pet person, you probably want to stop reading now. You won’t get it and you’ll end up judging me harshly.
If you are a pet person, keep reading and take heart in the fact that you are not alone in treating your furry friend like royalty.
I have three cats and they don’t go outside.
Since their world is so small we let them do pretty much anything they want. Within reason.
I’ve spent a fair bit of time thinking about how small their environment is, proportionally speaking. I don’t know if that means I’m nuts, or have too much time on my hands.
But if a cat is 8 inches tall or so and we’re five and half feet tall, what is proportionate equivalent to the house? A village? An office building?
I don’t have an answer. I tend to think of these things abstractly and not do the math because then I couldn’t think about it anymore and I’d have to come up with some other silly nonsense to wonder about.
Plus, people can’t jump on to something more than four times their height, so the formula wouldn’t work out right anyway.
A prime example of how we pamper our cats happened a few weeks ago.
I was getting ready to go away for the weekend and pulled out a duffel bag. Since it was a short trip, I figured the bag was just the right size to hold all my stuff.
I put the bag on the floor, where is sat for a day or two until I was ready to pack.
During that time, I found each of our cats sleeping on it at one point or another. I’d come upstairs to find our old grey cat, Sampras, taking a nap curled up in the center of the bag.
I’d wake up in the morning and find our girl cat, Angel, sitting on the bag, staring at me, willing me awake so I could feed them breakfast.
I’d come out of the bathroom and find our tiger cat, Collins, sound asleep on the bag, on his back with all four paws in the air.
When I was finally ready to pack the bag I realized that not only was it in need of some serious lint brush action, but that I couldn’t take away the cat’s new favorite sleeping place.
I pulled out a suitcase and left the bag for them.
It’s still on the floor, under my desk. I can hear Sampras purring from it as I write.
The only good thing is that I was finally able to pick up the bathrobe that has been on the floor in the corner of the room for three months for the same reason.
And when they discover a new, most likely inappropriate, nap space I’ll be able to put the duffel bag back in storage.
Tonight before I left home from work, I received a text from my mother. It said, “When you stop at the store, pick up some broccoli.”
I responded, ”Why am I stopping at the store?” I had no recollection of needing groceries and hadn’t planned on stopping at the store at all.
She texted back, ”To get turkey for Sam.”
Sampras loves deli turkey. It’s his favorite food. And since he’s sixteen, has a mass somewhere in his innards about the size of a small orange and we’ve been told by the vet that he should be dead several times over, we humor him.
And we make special trips to the grocery store to buy turkey for a cat.
Have you ever ordered just two slices of deli meat? You get funny looks.
I often explain by saying, “it’s for my cat.” That usually gets me funnier looks.
By the way, we can’t just buy the cheapest turkey they have. Sam likes oven roasted.
And once, in concern for his salt intake, I made the mistake of buying low sodium turkey. He wouldn’t eat it.
Sometimes the person at the deli counter tells me that I can’t buy just two slices of turkey. They say it doesn’t weigh enough and won’t register on the scale. So then I have to buy a third slice of turkey.
The reason I only buy two slices at a time is that Sam won’t eat it if it’s too old.
We’ll smell it and think it’s fine, but he takes one sniff, sits down and stares at us as if to say, “you expect me to eat rotten turkey?”
But I think we’ve outsmarted him. Tonight I bought four slices. I brought it home, we cut it up in small pieces and froze it.
Now we can have turkey on hand all the time. We can take some out in the morning and it will be thawed by the time Sam is ready to eat it, usually around lunchtime.
Yes, my cats have breakfast, lunch and dinner. Plus treats before bed.
A year or so ago we took Sam to a veterinarian cardiologist. I had no idea that profession even existed. I bet it’s a fairly new specialty. I can’t imagine my grandparents would have spent the money to take their dog or cat to a heart expert.
Even I, spoiler of cats and lover of most things fuzzy (most because rats are fuzzy), think a cat cardiologist a bit ridiculous.
But the vet recommended it, so we took him.
The cardiologist asked about what Sam ate. We told him about the turkey (he’s the one that gave me the idea about buying low sodium), the canned food and two Pounce before going to bed.
He wrote on Sam’s chart, “two treats at bedtime.”
That’s when I knew I liked that vet. He didn’t scoff, he didn’t act like we were nuts. It was as if our cat getting nighttime treats was perfectly normal.
I bet the cardiologist spoils his cat too.