Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Oh the fatmanity!
1. My extraordinary (and completely justified) self-absorption.
2. The swingingest mood fluctuations this side of Courtney Love.
3. A propensity to leave the shades drawn until 2 p.m.
4. A cat that weighs 17.6 pounds.
See, Radley, (a.k.a. The Pooper, a.k.a. Mr. Prettypants, a.k.a. Asshole), and I have just returned from a pre-move trip to the vet. The good news is that Radley is otherwise quite healthy, well-behaved and adorable. The bad news is that, despite the fact that he eats diet food (and not even very much of it), he is morbidly obese. I guess the apple doesn't far too fall from the tree, but that's because both the apple and the tree have a hard time getting around.
Since the problem is not with Radley's caloric intake, it is necessarily a matter of inactivity. Therefore, I have been medically instructed to play with my pet more. I know.
Aside from the fact that it is fundamentally unnatural to try and motivate a cat to get off his own fuzzy ass, I feel like I've failed as a caregiver. What do cats ask from us anyway? A place to poop? Check. Some delicious Iams Weight Control with Hairball Care in a lovely bowl? Check. A windowsill in which to sit, cleans one's armpit and stare at squirrels? Check. A minimal level of shake-the-toy-in-my-face-so-that-I-don't-get-feline-diabetes? Oops.
I just can't help but feel like this is a reflection on me and what I would do to any possible human children. If my kids were half as neurotic and plump as my cat has turned out to be, I'd have an open account at the Department of Family Services. I mean it. I'd be one of those moms with great intentions, a cupboard full of healthy snacks and family-appropriate board games, and the kid from Thirteen. Sure, I'd give her the apple as an after-school snack, but she'd probably just go and smoke weed out of it.
I guess, though, I could adopt a better attitude about this whole situation. I mean, Radley is completely happy the way he is. Like Mo'Nique, he owns his fatness with unapologetic sass and confidence. And why shouldn't he? So what if his belly literally swings from side to side when he walks! Who cares if he falls off the couch when he rolls over! What's the difference if he's single-handedly responsible for giving me athsma by sitting on my chest!
Okay, that settles it. Fuck the vet and her "your beloved kitty is going to die young" propaganda! She's totally in the pocket of the cat-toy industry anyway and can not therefore be trusted. From now on, Radley and I are going to celebrate his immensity. Right, Mr. Prettypants?