funny how
meat time
I love how the cat comes and sits, not next to the fridge, just sort of within range… letting me know with infinite courtesy that, you know, no hurry or anything, but some people might say it’s high time for Meat Time. “Meat Time!” I say, finally noticing her where she folds like a furred god, immaculately footed. Her tail is wrapped around her legs, she is not getting in anybody else’s way, she doesn’t say a word – and not only because she has no words and little use for words, it’s because she is being polite. If I walk between her and the magic fridge, where, for all I know she knows, the meat actually grows, ready carved into fresh nibble-sized bleeding chunks, she almost falls over herself skipping to reach me – she does a little hop, like a twist, her backside and haunches still sitting on the ground while her eager front feet have set off in the opposite direction. She reminds me of comics in old movies who say, “They went… thaddaway!” pointing two fingers in two directions. I let the chunks of flesh fall into her bowl. I’ve given up moving the old hair elastic that is her beloved and her prey, which every day ends up dropped into her empty dish. I hadn’t given up wondering why she would drag it over there once she’s done chasing and torturing the poor thing, then one day it dawned on me: oh. This is her eating place, where she would drag the corpse of her intended supper if she weren’t a soft little domestic possum-murderer. That worn elastic is her prey.
Meat time… I like it
Liking for the puddy tat.
Oh yeah – the elastic band is her prey….we humans take a while to understand sometimes….
You are lucky Cathoel.our cat came from a rescue centre and we took her home after they had warned us that she had ” failed their personality test. She hated us for years and has now relaxed into a grumpy sense of entitlement. She will you’ll and dart through doors as if imprisoned or excluded for eons and is almost besides herself with an ty urgency when deciding she wants food.
Oh, Mark, that does sound sad. Poor little scaredy puss. It’s true, eh, as with people: a damaged animal is harder to love. I feel lucky that I found my cat before she’d belonged to anyone else. She is purebred but I was given her by the breeder, who in her enthusiasm for cats had simply bred too many kittens and got told by the local council that she had to give some of them away. I hope your perseverance and your patience pay off with this little girl. She’s lucky to have wound up with you.
Who says our feline overlords have no patience?