I ladled out a quarter of a small can of cat food this morning and then took my bath. The cat food was gone and Emmy was up on the bed cleaning her paws when I finished. There were no signs of regurgitated cat food on the rugs. Good. I ladled out another quarter can, sealed the top and put it in the refrigerator as I left. I put out the third quarter of the can just now when I got back, but her nose hasn't noticed. The dry cat food level is lower. These are good signs. It is Friday, the weekend coming, more good signs.
I could easily become accustomed to good signs, I think, rocking back, sipping on a glass of Old Criminal Intent and water, a Kentucky not quite bonded Bourbon Whiskey that I purchase down by the corner from a sometimes vendor named "Vince", who sells it by the pint in small paper bags, one to a customer, and Oakland tap water, of course, a sometimes lethal but always debilitating combination known to the locals here in the hood. Life is good. Here in the hood.
Sherri suggested, since Emmy came from a home with dogs and another cat, Emmy might be accustomed to bolting her food in order to beat the Dobermans to her dish, so she's bolting her food here watching the shadows. I hadn't thought of that. I always have a dish of dry food on the floor beside a water dish and the dish I use for canned food. I wonder how that would work with Doberman's in the house?
I did this with Wuss before his urinary tract began failing and we put him on an all canned food prescription diet that took him months before he could eat it without a meow and a grimace. Maybe this canned stuff I'm buying is the cat equivalent of a heart stopping big Mac and keeping Emmy on the dry (Politically Correct Brand) cat food would be better for her health. She'd learn to like it. Eventually. We humans learn to like broccoli, for example. Eventually.