Meal-time Mania

I can’t say that meal-times with the beasts constitute my favourite moments in the day. Not only do their relationships make dining in different locations necessary, but they eat at different speeds, requiring my rapid movement about the Cosy Cabin like the sole waiter in a busy restaurant (and no, I don’t mean the waiter who serves only sole).

Brazil eats on the taller cat-tree in the sitting room, while Imogen eats on the cylinder-house cat-tree. Moxy and Valkyrie are served in the kitchen (and periodically poach from each other’s bowls), while Neville eats in his bed. Indigo dines in the bedroom and Sable either under the bed or under the couch in the library.

Except for the last two, I can’t give them their whole portions at once, otherwise the cats will eat some and lose interest and walk away, only to want more later. I feed them partial portions and, once they finish that, they ask for more, if they are so inclined. This is the policy, which I have tried to alter many times, that keeps me so active during the meals.

The worst, though, is when one or more of the beasts simply decides that nothing on the menu is to their liking. Two, three, four different varieties are offered, and none eaten. Eventually, of course, I give up and the reluctant diner must go without. Even so, there is something particularly annoying about serving food that they liked previously, that they showed no sign of disdaining, only to have them sit back and stare at it, and then at you, as if the management is too stupid to comprehend what it is doing wrong.

However, it all ends at last, and we can all rest - except for me: I have to clean up. The cats, at times the worst customers a restaurant can endure - retire to their respective cosiness and await the next meal.