The Role of Food in Our Household

For the last few years, we’ve been pretty calm about food in our household. Mom is an omnivore. I’m famous for eating unmentionable garbage and stealing my mom’s food. The cats chewed on their crunchies.

Then everything changed. Cathy adopted Ophelia, who’s a food fuss. Ophelia insisted on eating canned food, which was supposed to be an occasional treat. My mom doesn’t want to mess with cans. After all, I eat crunchies. Why shouldn’t the cats? Who’s the superior species here?

So my mom finally got firm. At night she put down two plates of yummy Avoderm crunchies, one for each cat. Ophelia ran to her dish. Alas, she seemed to say, “no crunches.”

She gave Mom her best pathetic stare. Mom was unmoved. She had just rinsed out 3 cans for recycling. Enough!

So she ran to the other dish and sniffed. No crunchies.

Ophelia ran back and forth a couple of times before accepting the inevitable. She stalked away, fat plumy tail held high.

My mom was worried. “What if she won’t eat? What if she gets hepatic lipidosis? A big vet bill…”

Later that night we awoke to the sound of crunching. Sure enough, there was Ophelia, caught in the act. Ophelia looked at my mom and dashed away, muttering, “I was not eating. Don’t get any ideas.”

Could a cat be this smart? my mom wondered. She asked a couple of her human friends, by phone.

“Cats can be very manipulative,” said Mom’s friend Pat. “Don’t give in.”

Mom’s pretty stubborn herself. After all, I did serious crate time my first few months, till I convinced everyone I could be trusted to stay on the bed all night. I know the drill.

Anyway, I’ve had slim pickings around here myself. Mom downloaded a diet from the Internet and there’s not much for me to steal. No self-respecting dog would eat a cucumber and tomato salad. Whole grain bread? Not for me.

And that ditzy Creampuff keeps eating my food. I’d like to have a word with that adoption agency…if I knew how to use a phone.

My Dog Crate Is Really A Castle

When a Canine Urban Princess (a CUPPIE) gets tired, she retreats to her own private castle. Mine looks like an airline crate on the outside.

I inherited my crate from Keesha, Cathy’s first dog.

When Cathy adopted Keesha, about 10 years ago, she dreaded the idea of a crate. “Jail for dogs,” she shuddered.

But Keesha tortured the cats every time Cathy went out. One day Keesha tore a hole in a neighbor’s screen door, thinking the kindly neighbor was dog-napping instead of dog-sitting. Cathy immediately invested in a queen-sized crate. Keesha’s whole personality changed — for the better. And Cathy became a convert.

So when I arrived, I spent a lot of time in the crate I inherited from Keesha. Thank goodness! I had time to enjoy my own space while I adjusted to my new home and family…not to mention chewing on a rubber toy filled with royal peanut butter.

My crate has become my castle. I retreat to my castle when Cathy goes out, when I’m feeling a little under the weather or when we get visitors who operate noisy machines like vacuum cleaners and rug shampooers.
I sleep on my royal blanket and dream of a world with a dog park on every corner.