As regular readers of this blog will know, our eldest cat Owen Meany works as a paralegal at the law firm across the street from the bookstore. He’s held this post for two years now, and I have no idea how many felines he’s assisted in suing their owners for dereliction of duty or contractual negligence.
I just know he’s assisting our foster cats now. On the advice of our vet, Saint Beth of Powell Valley Animal Hospital, we have stopped giving them wet breakfast.
Wet breakfast was one can of Friskies (or whatever else was donated) per five cats, so it wasn’t a big deal…. we thought. Until we stopped.
Yesterday the cats ran to their usual breakfast location, pushing and shoving, and stood, dumbfounded, staring at me as I put away the dishes in which we normally feed them.
“Uh, you’re doing it wrong,” one said, extending a helpful paw. “You need coffee? This is the part where you open the cans.” Another butted a can at me with his head as if to say “Here ya go, lady.”
In an effort to placate them, a whole can of kitty treats got festooned across the counter like so many ornaments on a Christmas tree. They gobbled these, then looked up.
I tried to explain, I really did. I laid out the logical reasons: the cats will nose at each others’ dishes, which is bad for infection control if someone has a cold or infection; wet food messes up the, ehm, monitoring of the bowels by which any foster mom measures cat health – yes, it’s true, we examine poo.
They were unimpressed. A few minutes ago I found a delegation surrounding Owen, pushing a piece of paper forward. I’m pretty sure it was the foster agreement we have with Appalachian Feline Friends.
Poor cats. There’s nothing in there about wet breakfast. But Owen is very crafty. He’ll come up with something along the breach of contract front. Jack and I fully expect to be served with papers this week.
We just hope they’re not from the litter box.