Cat Food

You'd think that after thirteen-odd years of me dutifully serving as her butler, chef, and general skivvy, my cat would have figured out how to open a pouch of cat food herself. It's not as if she doesn't know where they are - she watches me retrieve them from the cupboard with the intensity of a MI5 operative monitoring suspicious activity. And it's certainly not due to a lack of tools. The claws alone should be more than adequate for the job, not to mention the teeth that can shred an armchair in record time.

 

But no. She sits there, staring at me with a look of disdain that says, “Are you seriously this slow?” She’ll even throw in a dramatic tail flick for good measure, just to underline her frustration at my apparent inability to read her mind and have the pouch opened before she even deigns to request it. Meanwhile, I’m fumbling with the sachet, trying to tear it open while Her Majesty waits, unimpressed.

Now, don’t tell me she’s not capable of figuring it out. Cats are clever creatures. I've seen her open doors that should have required a locksmith’s touch. She can leap onto the highest shelves, manoeuvre through the narrowest gaps, and expertly bat ornaments off ledges with consummate precision. But apparently, the art of pouch opening remains beyond her grasp? I don't buy it.

No, this is a calculated move on her part. Why should she put in the effort when she’s got me to do it for her? Cats are experts at outsourcing tasks they deem beneath them. If they had opposable thumbs, I suspect they’d have us signing contracts before long, agreeing to lifelong servitude in exchange for the occasional purr or headbutt. You think you're in charge, but deep down, you know the truth - you're staff.

And she’s not shy about making her demands known. She’ll miaow loudly to attract my attention if I’m too slow to catch on. If that fails, she taps me with her paw - a gentle but insistent reminder that dinner isn’t going to serve itself. It’s quite the performance, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t work every time. The combination of the miaow and the tap is a masterclass in feline manipulation. I’m wrapped around her little paw, and we both know it.

Feeding her when Jumbsie, the neighbour’s cat, is in the house is a nightmare. He only visits for warmth and to find food - he's mercenary and doesn’t get on with Kitty. The moment there’s the slightest scent of food in the air, he’s there like a shot, muscling in with all the charm of a bouncer at closing time. Meanwhile, Kitty glares at him with utter contempt, and I’m left playing referee between two disgruntled cats.

The worst part? If she ever did manage to open her own pouch, I'd bet good money she'd help herself to two. Or three. And then claim she hadn't eaten all day when I walk in, because cats have mastered the art of deception better than any politician. “What? Me? No, this empty pouch? It must have been that fox that broke in. Can we focus on the fact that I'm starving, please?”

In the end, it's all part of their grand design. They keep us guessing. They let us think we’re needed. And they get their food served with just the right balance of exasperation and affection. It’s a game of cat and mouse - only the mouse is a pouch of chicken-and-liver dinner, and the cat is the undisputed champion of psychological warfare.

So, here I am, after thirteen years, still opening pouches, still getting splattered with gravy, and still apologising to a creature who’s probably laughing at me on the inside. And do you know what? I'll do it all again tomorrow. Because that's what it means to be owned by a cat.