At some terrifying moment in the past couple weeks I went from “a guy who happens to have a cat” to “a cat owner.” I never intended to reach this point. In fact, I intended to stop short of “a guy who happens to have a cat.” My wife had other plans, and before I knew it some stray had adopter her.
Now he lives with us.
Actually, last night he slept on my pillow. I allowed this because I was in no mood for the inevitable argument that would cause.
“Toby,” I’d say, “get down!”
“Meow!” he’d say.
So I would shove him off.
This would cause him to say, “meow!” then to jump back up. He just doesn’t get it.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, I found myself at the store for some food items. Among those food items were things for me and wet food for Toby. We know Toby has “refined” tastes. He only scratches at the most expensive furniture, for instance. He also managed to nearly starve outside, despite pretty much everyone in the apartment complex feeding him.
We ended up in the cat food aisle with some old lady who had a cart filled with boxes of cat food and was in the process of getting a rain check for one particular variety of cat wet-food. The Meijer employee was treating this as if it were totally normal and common behavior. Maybe it is. Maybe I’ve suddenly stepped into the world of the completely crazy.
Further evidence, Marissa and I had this actual conversation:
Marissa: No we can’t get him Friskers because it gives him gas.
Dawson: Oh yeah, what about this one [Iam’s]?
Marissa: Should be fine.
Dawson: I just wish I could find a variety pack that didn’t include turkey. He doesn’t like turkey. What about the seafood ones?
Marissa: I don’t know if he likes seafood.
Marissa and I looked at each other and shared a moment of silence for our dearly departed dignity before decided that that infernal creature better gosh darn be happy with whatever it was we got him.