Isabel, my illustrious 5# black cat, is elderly. She’s 14, which in cat terms is just shy of “fossil.” Isabel is also one of my most favorite cats ever, so I am trying to keep her running and healthy for as long as humanely possible. One of the elements in the Isabel preservation plan is she eats some high faluting old-cat food. She gets dry food (still has all 32 teeth) but to keep her weight up she also gets wet food to supplement it in the mornings. Since Miz Izz is very tiny and only eats teaspoons at a time, one can is enough for about 4 days. It’s also expensive, so the other two cats (who need no supplementation to their caloric intake, regular Cat Chow is fine for them) don’t get it. Just Miz Izz. And Jerry.
Jerry, as we all know, occasionally drinks a case or so of Natties. You can get good and besnookered on Natties, even though it’s sort of like driving through the ghetto to get to work: it takes longer, smells worse and is a lot more hassle than just taking the freeway. Anyway, Saturday night, Jerry had been into the Natties from about 5PM until about 11:30, so he’d killed the better part of a Natty Pack (30 twelve-ounce cans) and he was in fall-over obnoxious mode.
I’m not into cooking at 11:30PM. Even on the weekends, bedtime for me is almost always before 10PM, and earlier than that if I can get away with it. I’m an early morning person. I don’t really do late night well. Jerry has a bad habit of demanding me to fix him food at late hours and then not eating it, which really pisses me off- waking me up is bad enough, but having to wake up to fix food you’re going to waste infuriates me. So I very seldom indulge his late night snackie wanderings even though there have been times I’ve regretted it later.
I don’t like just turning him loose in the kitchen even though there is always plenty of lunch meat, fruit and vegetables, snackies, whatever, readily available in the fridge. He has a way of trashing the kitchen that is an exquisite nightmare to try to clean up later. But I was tired, and bound determined that he would forget about food and pass out soon enough anyway.
Then I heard him rooting around in the fridge, and I had visions that weren’t pretty. I had to get up and investigate, lest he decide to clear out everything in the fridge, except beer, leaving it on the floor to rot and leaving me to clean up the mess in the morning. He’s done that before.
I walk in to the kitchen and could barely contain myself. He had gotten out Isabel’s catfood (which had been covered with the bright yellow cat-face lid that I put on it to keep the rest of the fridge from smelling like catfood) and was snarfing it down like it was going out of style.
Then, to my intense amusement, he looks over at me mid-snarf and says, “I think this tuna is rotten.” Maybe that’s because it was salmon asses and other assorted meat and fish by-products you don’t even want to imagine? But he finished the can. I wasn’t going to stop him at that point. I guess I have nothing to worry about as long as he doesn’t start meowing and trying to lick his balls.