Our cat Rosie (part feline, part garbage disposal) likes to sit as close as possible while we are eating, carefully monitoring each bite entering our mouths as if each is one bite closer to certain and painful starvation for him. Yesterday he attentively watched Gary eat a sausage dog, his eyes large and unblinking, on stand-by to eat anything that fell from that plate.
“Sorry, Rosie,” Gary told him, finishing up the sausage dog. “Last time I let you have a piece, you got sick.”
Rosie watched in horrified disbelief as the last bite disappeared without even a hint of a crumb being offered to him. He did the only thing a hopelessly spoiled cat could possibly do: he flung himself onto the floor, no will to live now that he was being cruelly starved to death by heartless owners who claimed to love him, resting his head weakly on the floor like he couldn’t muster the strength to lift it even to shoot us nasty looks.
Gary and I laughed at his version of a temper tantrum, too lazy to kick and scream like a bratty toddler. He simply lay there, pitiful and weak, waiting for us to take notice and open up a bag of treats for his unimaginable suffering.
Instead, Gary said, “Well, guess he’s broken. Let’s toss him in the trash.”
At this, Rosie managed to lift his head just long enough to dart a not-amused glance at Gary, before dropping back to the floor to finish his feline tantrum.
Fear not: Rosie managed to regain his strength by dinner time. The rattle of the cat food bag resucitates him every time.