The cats always win out

Mom’s stand unsuccessful

Every week or so, our cats decide they no longer like the food we serve them — food which, three days prior, was deemed manna from Heaven and the greatest thing since sliced mice. So we switch food, and the cycle repeats itself, until I’ve had enough and try to reason with them. Naturally.

“You know, there are alley cats that would love to have this food, and it is only by sheer fortune and by no works of your own that you find yourselves with the luxury of being able to turn up your noses at food that I — I, Owner Dear! — provide. Without me, you’d be in a shelter counting your days or in the wild having to hunt or be hunted — perhaps even hunting for the very food you cast aside. You ungrateful moggies! You’ll eat that tuna, and you’ll be happy about it!”

Fifteen-year old Pink Floyd and 18-year-old Miss Pickles stare at me. They stare at their bowls mounded with a fresh pile of tuna with extra gravy. They stare back at me, flick their tails, and walk away.

“Don’t you flick your tails at ME!” I double down. “Fine. FINE. We’ll just see about that!”

Now, when a woman says “fine” in a particular tone, neither she nor the situation is truly fine. And when a woman, especially of Southern or rural persuasion, says the word twice? Something bad’s about to happen.

By the time Trapper John came home, the house was a cacophony of one wife and two elderly felines caterwauling in the highest octave they could hit.

“Hello?” he greeted cautiously. The cats screamed. “She did what?”

They screamed again, and ran to their food bowls, whispering “Sucka” under their breath as they trotted past me.

Trapper kissed his bride and reached for the treat jar, which I promptly snatched.

“We are having a standoff,” I protested. “Nothing else until those bowls are empty!”

Trapper stared at me, then at the bowls, then at Floyd and Pic, who were seated in perfect unison with heads tilted and tails wrapped neatly around their paws like devilish little synchronized swimmers. He stared back at me and grinned.

“Well, they refuse to eat this, this perfectly good food, and I bought a dozen cans of it. I’m not caving until they do!”

As the night and the yowling continued, I ruminated. I thought of how many times I’ve complained when I had no right to do so. How I bemoaned not getting everything I deserved instead of being grateful for not getting everything I deserved. How my rural roots of “waste not, want not” has served me well. How my guardian angel must wear out the face/palm emoji on her heavenly Motorola.

A cold, wet nose nuzzled me, dripping tuna with gravy on my sleeve. I slid a treat toward my old furry friend, and all was quiet on the home front.

Until next week. Which is fine. It’s fine.