Thursday, July 28, 2005

Cat's Miaow


"Eat, Figgy," I tell him sternly, index finger pointing at a suitably intimidating angle towards him. "You can't ask for more food when there's already plenty in your bowl." He nods, tilts his head pensively, then looks at me and miaows again. My built-in Cat Translator kicks in.

"I really don't understand why you humans think you're the smartest people around. Take yourself, for instance. I've been following you from hall to kitchen, back and forth, for the better part of half an hour. Just in case you don't get the message, I sit squarely in front of my food bowl, which is filled with some strange inedible substance, and ask you to throw it away and feed me so I can have some decent food to keep body and soul together. And what do you do? Stand there and make your weird human noises! Gesturing towards my plate and refusing to tell me what's going on, when you speak cat, fluently! The amount of stress it takes to get a decent meal around here... it's enough to make a cat go to sleep for six hours."

And after another failed attempt at getting me to give him his food of choice (top-quality ebikko from the cold waters off Northern Japan, no doubt), he gives me a blink-glare through half-closed eyes and goes to work finishing off the plate of kibble.

Figgy is one of the sweetest-natured cats to have come to this family (Whiskey being the absolute all-round winner), but doesn't seem able to accept that yes, that substance in his food dish is food.

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