Wednesday, January 18, 2017

I Guess It's Kind Of Like A Feline Version Of A Twice-Baked Potato

It's no secret that I give my Sweet, Sweet Juno and Puppy Jack a treat of cat kibble every time I come back home from getting my 44 oz Diet Coke. It's always referred to as their treat. As in, "Want a treat, want a treat? Do you want a treat?" In baby talk. It gets them all hyped up. It's never called a snack. That term is used after our afternoon "walkies," when I got through the kitchen and meet them on the front porch with leftovers. Snacks outrank treats. There's usually meat involved.

Anyhoo...I get them all hyped up for their treat. I usually am holding my purse, 44 oz Diet Coke, and possibly a food bag containing a Hardee's Chicken Bowl, or some gas station chicken, on my right arm and hand. The left is kept empty for petting, hugging, and treat-doling.

Let the record show that these dogs are up on the side porch, and I am down below on the sidewalk from the garage. That puts their faces at about my own face height (if Jack stands on his hind legs, which he does often), and I have to be careful of getting a mouth full of accidental dog nose while I'm talking to them. Here's Jack on an earlier day, enjoying is treat.


While carefully pivoting to keep the 44 oz Diet Coke and the fast food away from their licking muzzles, I reach my hand up to the shelf that holds the roaster pan of cat kibble that is left out for the three cats. Usually there's enough to grab a handful and dispense half in a little pile for Jack, and half in a little pile for Juno. I used to give her a bigger pile, because she's a bigger dog, but she has a habit of running over to Jack's space and rooting him out, because she thinks HE got more. She outsmarts herself like that, my Sweet, Sweet Juno.

Sometimes my hand feels like it is reaching into Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. Those are days when Farmer H has not done his chore of dumping a small saucepan (nonstick!) of kibble from the mini lidded trash can in the garage into the large roaster pan that's the feeding dish. My kitchen inventory seems to suffer when these pets are involved. On those days, I go in the garage and get the pan, and the dogs get really excited, and even my Sweet, Sweet Juno runs in there. Jack likes the garage, because the growling cat that hates him is often up in the rafters, growling, which means he must bark loudly to show her who's boss. Juno was put in there for 24 hours (vet's instructions, to put her up and protect her) while she was coming out of anesthesia from her very special operation when she was a young 'un. So I think she associates that garage with not-fun.

Anyhoo...on this day, I reached my arm up, protecting my own treats on the other arm, and started to grasp a handful of cat kibble...but some hunch told me to turn and look.


Good thing I did. That's cat yak right in the middle. Vomit, people! One of those darn cats had REFUNDED right in their feeding pan! I left it there, of course. They'll eat it again. For being so finicky and preferring to have a fresh pan poured each day rather than eat yesterday's pan...they certainly have no qualms about eating their own yak. Thank the Gummi Mary I saw it, and adjusted my fistful to near the edge.

Our fleabags. They bring us such joy.

4 comments:

Sioux said...

HM--That was a close one. I shudder, thinking about you reaching right into the middle and pressing your fingers into that squishy stuff.

Yuck.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Sioux,
You ain't a-woofin'! I'm certainly happy that I have kind of a hunchy sixth sense that made me take a look. I normally reach in there blindly.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

That would definitely curb your appetite! I hate cleaning up pet puke!

Hillbilly Mom said...

Kathy,
Well, with them being outside fleabags here, I just leave it for them to eat again!