Posts Tagged ‘fussy eaters’

The other day, I woke to the distant sound of bells. In my early-morning delirium, I thought “Hooray! Santa’s here!” and then “Maybe he’s bought the giant pitcher of pre-mixed Flirtini that I asked for…”. But then I came to, and realised that it was Genghis Cat doing something at the other end of the house and, from the sounds of it, it was something far more vigorous than his usual bells-a-jingling activity (see “Out of the Bag“). 

I was tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep but I heard little footsteps running down the hall and an equally little voice exclaim “Oooooh!”. I stumbled out of bed to find Tiddles McGee standing at the laundry door staring in wonder at a flurry of grey feathers floating gently to the ground. Part of me desperately wanted to believe Genghis Cat had just gone head-to-head with our winter quilt but then I saw it: a freshly-deaded bird. Whatsmore, a freshly-deaded bird that lay between the toilet and me, with my post-three-pregnancies-at-bursting-point-clear-the-way-it’s-gonna-blow bladder.

And then ol’ Genghis appears from the shadows and starts snaking around my ankles in the way he only does when he wants some food. Which just made me angry because here he was, hitting on me for food with a whole dead bird not a metre away and 3/4 of a sachet of cat food still in his bowl from the night before. And he looks up at me as if to say “Wha’?”

I had originally thought that one of the prime benefits of pet ownership was about finally (finally!) having someone in the household that ate whatever you put in front of them. But of course I found out way too late that this applies to all pets with the notable exception of cats, many of which are even fussier than The Pixie in full-preschool Diva mode (see “Not-so-easy Riders“). Genghis Cat won’t eat chicken. He won’t eat beef. He’ll eat some fish but nothing with sardines or pilchards in it. Even when I feed him the stuff he apparently does like, he’ll have a vague sniff at it and then come straight back to me with this look like “Is that all you got?”. I mean, this is the cat who I’ve caught nicking a whole slice of peanut butter toast from Tiddle’s plate. This is the cat that won’t drink the water I put out for him in any bowl but will happily jump into the bath tub to lick the stagnant water around the bath plug. And, despite the fact I’m the one who feeds him every day and every night, this is the cat who never gives me any lovin’ or comes and sits on my lap: he reserves that honour for my husband, who has never once sullied his lily-white hands with cat shit from the kitty litter or had to scrape caked-on cat food off the side of the feeding bowl with his fingernails. I’m soooo that cat’s bitch-slave. 

And so we come back to the dead bird, the disposal of which stood between my bladder and sweet relief. I’m not good with corpses – and birds give me the heebie-jeebies even when they are alive. So let’s just say, I had to be very brave and carry out my duties swiftly, while Tiddles watched and clapped his little hands, exclaiming “Birdy!”. Yes, Tiddles. See the birdy. See Mummy squirm. See the nice birdy go into the dustpan. See Mummy shudder and groan and dry-retch. See the birdy get tipped into the outside bin. And then see Mummy run. Run Mummy, run! As fast as her potato-pickin’ peasant legs will carry her, all the way to the toilet and hear her shout “Thank Christ!” and then hear her mutter menacingly about “that cat” for the rest of the morning.

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