Bad Cat Mama

My baby weighs 19 pounds.

My baby is a six year old mackerel tabby, and so this is on the large side. Of course, he's tall for a cat, with long bones. But still. A lot of that poundage is belly.

I feed the cat the lite form of this schmancy stuff. He's been on the lite stuff for like four years.

He has a lot working against him: he's neutered, declawed (I got him from the pound that way!), and not allowed to go outside. (They actually make you sign a form promising you'll keep the cat indoors, when you adopt a declawed cat.) For the first coupla years, he lived with me in a studio-cum-one-bedroom that opened onto a concrete balcony over busy street. Even now, when we live in a teeny house in a nice quiet neighborhood full of squirrels, the cat can't go outside. What, he's gonna be able to catch a squirrel? Have you seen his belly swing when he runs? No, but seriously, the neighborhood cats sometimes sneak up outside the screen door and yowl at the cat. The cat yowls back. He buffs up all manly and growls. It's clear that he's quite sure he can take these cats: just let him at it.

Which we and the neighborhood cats know otherwise. Tabby Cat doesn't have claws, and if in a playful mood he jumps OFF-the-bed-and-runs-to-the-couch-and-leaps-and-runs-back-to-the-bed, then he has to collapse for a while upside down on his back, paws splayed like a manatee, and wheeze.

Which brings me back to the fat. Three years ago, the vet said, if the lite stuff doesn't work, bring him back in and we'll put him on a science diet.

But I never did. And in fact, I shamelessly bribe the cat with food each and every 4 am he hefts himself onto my chest and purrs intently into my face. (He supplements the purring with nips. This is what usually gets him knocked onto the floor.) I bribe the cat with a little dry food in his empty bowl anytime he knocks stuff off the table, attacks one of our books, shreds important papers with his teeth. (This is one of his very favorite diversions. Also, it's hopelessly cute. He sort of plants his little clawless paws on the paper, fetches some into his mouth, then shakes his head back and forth really fast, spewing shreds like confetti.)

I am a bad, bad mama. Oh sure, the cat gets food and love, and playing (or at least harassment) each and every day. But the cat still has his belly. I haven't regimented his food or put him on a vigorous diet. I don't even trim his back claws, and his little back feet click click click on the linoleum.

I know that obesity in cats can, as in humans, cause problems. I know that the weight pulls on his spine, making his form not what it should be.

But I think the cat is happy. Most of the time. And I'm happy -- he's a purring machine -- and entertained, since pets are funny. Or at least ours are. (Sometimes when Cat is being rowdy late at night, we tell the dog to get him, and the dog, I swear to god, makes this groan that sounds like gimmeabreak!)

It just feels too much like guilt, too much like being controlled. I must be healthy and fit, and so must my cat, is the message I get. Along with all the other Musts and Shoulds my therapist told me I should question.*

So that's it. Sticking it to the Man. Just me and my fat cat.



*Which isn't to say that I don't hope we can all stay healthy and fit. Healthy and fit is great.