my second profession

When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with cats. Meaning, Grandma gave me cat sweatshirts for Christmas and I was thrilled! My aunts gave me cat knick-knacks! I cherished them! They hung on a wall in a knick-knack shelf! Boy do I need a knick-knack shelf in my home! But that is not today's post.

I decided I would be one of two things when I got older. The first, a children's book author (in which I wrote titles such as "The Princess and the Kitten"), or, as my mom was rooting for, a cat psychologist. You think they don't exist? You're wrong. They're technically "behaviorists" and I am pretty sure they make quite the killing.

Although I am neither of these things professionally, I sometimes consider myself a cat psychologist. Take for example, our experience the last couple days with our 10-year-old feline companion Gabby the flabby tabby.

Let me say kindly that there is much to love of Gabby our flabby tabby -- literally. So much in fact, that last year we put her on a diet. The Vet-Man said, "feed her 1/2 cup of this food daily and she'll lost 5 pounds in 6 months." Which would be, oh, close to 25% of her body weight. If I could lose that, whoo hoo! (maybe when I'm done with this pregnancy thing I'll switch to a 1/2 cup of Gabby's food daily).

(This is what we lovingly refer to as "Gabby girth" ... it is also Shanester's favorite picture to take of her. we have hundreds of these shots!)

So, imagine my surprise, when our always-starving cat, suddenly stopped begging for food this weekend. I was astonished. I mean, she usually begs beginning around 5 am (when we sometimes get up), and DEFINITELY by 6 am (when we are always up), so on Saturday, when it was going on 9:30 am, we were sure she had passed out. (And without a meow? Mysterious.)

And, to add more intrigue, we noticed she hadn't been given her 9 pm DINNER from the night before! Dearest Gabby, where have you gone and who is this striped creature in your place?

A couple weeks ago we found she had a secret food stash (she found the "master bag" of cat food) and put the kibosh on that. The chances of that happening again were slim... and we confirmed. Not that. She ate her breakfast (which we finally gave her at 10 or something), and just meandered about her day. She didn't beg for lunch. We force fed her dinner.

So, the psychologist in me was looking for answers. Her litter box was, ahem, still being used, so no problems there. Her eyes were still healthy; her teeth clean. She didn't smell bad. But I was worried sick.

You know what I think it was? My formal diagnosis: I stepped on her paw this week, while making my way over to her cat food bowl as she was anxiously and eagerly leading the way. I think dearest kitty was in physical pain. I wonder if she got this baby sprain and lost her appetite? That's all I can think of. Whenever I try to talk to Shanester about it, he tells me to stop worrying! Is this the kind of mother I'm going to be? (Re: the worrying, not the stepping on my kids' feet.)

In the end, I'd make a crummy psychologist. She's back to begging for food, thank goodness, but for two or three days I was pretty convinced she was near death. Any more developments, I'll let you know. Hopefully an eyeball doesn't fall out in the next couple days.

I guess the world is better off that I stuck with marketing.