Look at this face. I mean, really look at it.
Take it alllll in...
Cute, right? I realize that I might be a little bit biased. She is, after all, my Big, Fluffy Kitty. I suppose that, to others, she might not be quite as precious. But even if you can't find it in your heart to see her perfection, you have to admit that she's pretty darned cunning.
(or, as we say it in these parts: wicked cunnin')
I have to admit, though, that I have never really credited the BFK with being the brightest of creatures. To me, she has always been a rather simple being, one who lives simply for the love of her Mama and a good chin scratch. She isn't all that graceful. She falls down sometimes in her enthusiasm for getting from point A to point B. She enjoys a good nosh, but has some difficulty eating from a bowl. Her face has never quite fit her mouth and she needs to fling food to the floor then nose it around for a bit before getting it into a good position for munching.
She has gigantic feet. This adds to her general air of clownish clumsiness. In short, she has always struck me as a wonderfully dopey kitty and is my joy because of it.
Cute can be deceptive. I am beginning to wonder if this creature might just be some sort of diabolical genius. If nothing else, she has mastered the art of working the room. And the guilt.
Last summer, I observed there to be much more of my sweet kitty than I remembered. Feeling horrible about allowing my poor girl to get so rotund, I promptly began a program of kitty aerobics and cut back on the crunchies. I can't allow my baby to lose her girlish figure, after all! She bore this indignity with more grace than I would have predicted.
In November, I began to come to a horrible realization, though. The Big Fluffy Kitty wasn't really so much fat as she was felted. As a double-coated cat, she requires a great deal of brushing and I swear to you I do this regularly. Her outer coat was lovely. Her Factory Undercoating had completely matted. Up to an inch in places. It all had to go. From her little fanny to her midsection, vast amounts of fur needed to be painstakingly removed. This left her with shoulder fur. God help me, she looked like a football player...
She also bore this indignity with a certain amount of grace. I'm a lucky mother.
Then one day, she became an "only cat." This wasn't exactly planned and I probably wouldn't have explained it to her anyway. As I mentioned earlier, I've never really thought she was a "deep thinker." But suddenly she was all alone, bald and still smarting from all the kitty aerobics sessions. I felt badly about that. Really badly.
I bought lots of new toys. I started leaving the television on during the day so she would have some company. (Cartoon Network is her favorite.) I bought special treats. And, when the guilt was especially close to the surface, I shared some of my own special treats. Not a lot, mind you. Just the occasional cracker. Maybe a cheesy, puffy sort of thing every now and again. And I may or may not have roasted some turkey for her. If I did, (and I'm not admitting to anything here), I took off the skin and only gave her the white meat that she likes so much. If I were to actually cross the line between "feeding your cat" and "cooking for your cat" that is probably the sort of thing I might have done.
What would you do? Go back and look at that face, for heaven's sake! I'm not make of stone, here!!! She's just an innocent, little kitty who needs me to wait on her paw 'n claw...
But, I'm starting to wonder if I might be getting manipulated just a bit. I'm not sure. There is really no way to tell for certain, I suppose. But I can tell you that a local store had some really yummy Cheerios Snack Mix on sale this week. I got two bags for weekend munching. I can also tell you that, when I opened the bag, a certain cute, fluffy someone appeared by my side as if by magic. And while most kitties might be satisfied with one or two cheesy flavored Cheerios, mine was not. When I wasn't looking, she stuck her whole head in the bag. That is rather sneaky and not the behavior of an innocent creature. It could just be an example of enthusiasm, I suppose.
But, as the final piece of evidence let me tell you this: She snatched a piece right out of my hand. Blatantly. Flagrantly. Without regard for possible consequences. She showed no respect for me whatsoever.
And she looked adorable the whole time. She's either working off fewer cylinders than I originally thought or she is an evil genius. I'm afraid to go to sleep tonight.
I'm hoping that she just wants me to knit her a pair of those cute, widdle baby sox I've been making so many of lately. If this is not the case, then I may be in some trouble here.