Recently my mom read me a story from the Wall Street Journal. If you’re human you can read it here.
Apparently obesity is as serious for dogs and cats as smoking is for humans. The article had lots of stories about fat dogs and cats, including overweight dogs who were put on diets after they were adopted.
Frankly, I don’t worry about obesity. My mom watches my waist line, along with my sharp-eyed Aunt Sara. As soon as anybody says, “Getting a little chunky there, Gracie?” I’m in trouble. But I get tons of exercise and my mom doles out my crunchies with a measuring cup, just like the vet said.
Ophelia, on the other hand, is what we used to call a tubby tabby. She doesn’t eat that much. She only gets to eat when I’m out of the house or locked in my crate, because otherwise I steal her food. She can’t leap up to the counter the way Creampuff can.
My mom refuses to worry. “Remember Tiger?” she says. “For years everybody told me that cat was too fat. They warned me she’d die prematurely. When she finally headed for that great sandbox in the sky, she was a good 20 years old.”
Tiger was tough. My mom adopted her in Canada. “Probably a Saskatchewan barn cat,” she likes to say.
Ophelia, on the other hand, comes from a shelter in Seattle, where her family probably got tired of dealing with a spoiled rotten feline and dumped her off. After a whole month of living in a small cage, she is our most appreciative housemate. She actually grovels. Very undignified for a cat. For my mom’s sake I hope she lives a long time. We’ve given up trying to put her on a diet.