Fun fact: Cats can’t taste sweetness in food.
For years, Thomas was content with his own breakfast kibble. Then, one morning, I left part of the crust from a piece of toast unattended on a plate, and he discovered a whole new world of breakfast food. From that moment on, the ding on the toaster was his clarion call.
Before Thomas discovered toast, my breakfast routine was simple. I’d take my plate with my sunny-side-up eggs on toast to the couch where I’d nibble as I read a book. After Thomas discovered toast, breakfast became more complicated. As far as I was concerned, the proper protocol would have been for me to eat breakfast and then give him leftover bite-sized pieces of crust.
Thomas had a different plan. For a week or two, he yowled and tried to look imperious, hoping to shame me into feeding him first. Next he went for the sympathy vote and sat on my lap, staring up at me with huge golden eyes that said, “Feed me. I haven’t eaten in hours, days or possibly weeks. I’m wasting away to almost nothing. Another pound or two and you’ll be able to feel my ribs.” Then he’d suck in his stomach and sigh, one of the most plaintive sounds in the world.
However, Thomas forgot two things. One, unlike him, I could tell the time. “Forget it, boy,” I’d say, checking my wristwatch. “It’s been exactly thirty-seven minutes since you got your real breakfast. You scarfed down every kibble and licked the dish three times to make sure not a single crumb got away. You even inhaled every molecule of the aroma.” And two, like me, he was in no danger of wasting away any time soon.
I refused to succumb. Instead, I hugged the plate closer to my chest, twisting from side to side to avoid a wet nose inching toward the dish.
Unfortunately, my galley kitchen forced me to eat on the couch, making me an easy target for a determined cat. I could have cleaned the piles of papers, folders and magazines off the dining room table and sat there, but Thomas and I both knew that was never going to happen. Instead, we turned our breakfast routines into ritualized combat, with my toast as the prize.
For months, the ding of the toaster brought Thomas into the kitchen, eyes shining with love and a droplet of drool decorating his lower lip. For months, I’d plate my food and sit on the couch where I’d push him off me, only to have him jump back on my lap seconds later. Since Thomas generally doesn’t like to expend energy, a trait that has increasingly shown up on the vet’s scale, I was delighted I had come up with a wonderful new way of getting him to exercise.
I actually thought of calling the vet to inform him of the new fitness program, but I wasn’t sure he’d approve of feeding Thomas toast. In fact, his words, “Overweight. Unhealthy. Atkins kind of cat,” came to mind. Rather than stop giving him toast, I kept the good news to myself because of the added payoff. All the twisting to hold the dish away from him had added a smidgen of definition to my arms and waist. A win-win situation in my mind.
Thomas, of course, disagreed.
While he kept jumping and I kept hugging — the plate, not the cat — at least one of us was happy. Then one day, in an extravagant exhibition of energy, he sailed through the air and landed feet first in my eggs. For a moment, we stared at each other in amazement until he shook the still-runny yolk off his feet and all over the couch and me.
“Bad cat,” I said. Actually, I yelled it loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. I loved that couch. It was my birthday present to myself. I had chosen it specifically because Thomas’s hair blended in so well with the weave and color that I didn’t have to vacuum it every fifteen seconds. I hadn’t counted on adding bright yellow to the mix.
With a final shake of his paw, Thomas jumped off my lap and slumped down on my feet, keeping one eye trained on my plate.
I studied the eggs for a moment, noting the perfect indentations of two little cat feet. Absently removing a couple of cat hairs from my breakfast, I had the eggs halfway to my mouth before I realized what I was doing. I paused, then told myself not even a confirmed cat lover would eat that breakfast. A couple of cat hairs? Sure. Footprints? Definitely not. With a deep sigh, I returned the food to my plate.
Feeling none too generous toward my feline acrobat, I nudged him off my foot where he left partially dry, egg-colored prints on my slipper. He padded after me into the kitchen, leaving more faint footprints behind him.
“Sorry, Thomas,” I said, scraping the sorry mess into the garbage. “No toast for either of us this morning.” Then I pulled out an old box of cereal from the back of the cupboard. Thomas eyed me but prudently decided to let me eat in peace.
As I chomped away on stale cereal, I considered my options. I could stop eating eggs and toast for breakfast, but that would penalize both of us. I could bite the bullet and clean off the dining room table, but it would be covered with papers again within days, if not hours.
I gave in.
The next morning when the toaster dinged Thomas watched me remove one-and-a-half pieces of toast. I carefully cut up his half-slice and put the pieces into a bright blue plastic ball with holes that allow the food to come out if the cat bats it around. Now, if Thomas wanted his toast, he was going to have to run for it. I showed him the ball, let him get a good whiff of the toast, and tossed it down the hall.
As he took off after it, I got my own breakfast ready. Then I sat on the couch — alone — to the soothing sound of plastic bouncing down the hallway, with a large orange cat bounding after it. My eggs and toast had never tasted so good.
~Harriet Cooper
