The ones who can really count on a decent meal for breakfast are the cats, Figaro, Mystic, Samson, and Gracie.
Mystic is more reliable than any alarm clock. Pat, pat, pat. “Mama, are you up?” Pat, pat, pat. “Give me a little lovin’.” Pat, pat, pat. “Get up, dang it. Feed me.”
Crap. This starts about 6:30, if I am lucky. Eventually, I stagger to the bathroom where three cats line up to be combed. And Gracie, the baby, is always anxious to be number one.
As I stumble to the kitchen, Gracie is doing her “Adore me, Mama” shtick. Rolling on her back and wanting me to rub and scratch. If I don’t, she weaves between my legs and falls down, exposing her Dagwood Bumstead black button on her white chest. Scratch, scratch, sweet nothings I mumble.
Everyone in the house is sound asleep, except for me and three cats. The fourth one, Figaro, the Queen, is asleep on James’ bed. Waiting until she hears breakfast prepared. Then she will saunter in, requesting-no, make that demanding-her mini-moo.
You have orange juice with your breakfast. Queen Figaro has Land O’Lakes Half and Half creamer. There is a long story behind the mini-moos and the song that must accompany it. That is a story for another day, but suffice it to say, I rub between her eyebrows, sing the mini-moo song, and present her a saucer of cream. If I am able a dance will accompany the song. Don’t say it.
I know there is something wrong with me.
It all goes well, she laps it up. If something was not to her liking, she will glare at me and let the saucer be. Samson is always hoping for this regal rebuff. He waits until she leaves and he slips in, laps it down as fast as he can, and then hides.
When I make it to the pantry, I have myriad arrangement of breakfast foods for the babies. I grab whatever is easiest to reach. Surely, it will not be their first choice. Their first choice is always tuna, served by their Daddy on Sunday morning.
I get their china. It is better than our china. Divide the wet food of the day onto four saucers. Put fresh water in their mouse or cat shaped bowls and add that to the tray. Then comes the dry food.
I buy a variety of dry foods for them. They each like something else. Of course, they do. Well, they don’t all get their favorites every day. I weakly draw a line at preparing four different dry foods.
I pour the flavor of the day into my mama’s REAL milk glass shallow bowls. Yep, they qualify as antiques. Told you. The cats get the best china.
Apparently throwing up is one of the cats’ favorite things to do. Usually at night and in the normal foot path for traffic.
I bought some gluten free, specialty food, in hopes it would help. It is good for them. Expensive for me. They hate it. I have two bags, six pounds of this special blend that is designed to be good for fur, eyes and digestive track.
Alone, they eat it only when starvation is near. Mixed with other dry foods, I had hoped they would eat it. What do you think?
They will eat every fish shaped piece and leave the little buttons of the ‘good for you” food in the bowl. How do they do that? A bowl of buttons will be left. I can only hope every once in a while they swallow a “good for you” piece.
Fluffy is a feral cat that has taken up outside. No, we haven’t been able to bring her in. We’ve tried for two years. She shares under the barn with Rachel the Raccoon. They get the best breakfasts delivered to them each morning. Fluffy and Rachel are particularly fond of the very expense buttons. Their fur and eyes have never looked healthier or brighter.
