My cat's not eating. The average person would be concerned because cats are supposed to eat. Cats are feeble. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOUR CAT'S NOT EATING?! Go to the vet! Now! No. My cat hasn't eaten for two days because she's an asshole. So, until "asshole" is a defined illness (which, let's be honest, it almost is), she's just going to have to carry on with her hunger strike. She's not eating because I dared feed her average cat food. THE HORROR. The same cat food that kept her alive and well and happy for EIGHT YEARS. Until recently.
Let's back up.
Several months back I splurged on a $20 bag of cat food. Grain-free. Supposed to be all good and things for Chicken and Harley's delicate little bellies. And when I say, "delicate little bellies," I mean, "Harley." Also, "fuck you, cat, stop shitting on my floor." Also, "REALLY? TWENTY DOLLARS?"
But I digress.
So they've been nomming on this Food Made of Dollar Bills for months. They love it. This, of course, did not cure Harley's poop fiasco, but I continued to buy it anyway. I considered it my good deed. Oh! Look! My cats eat healthier than I do! But, you know, $20 for a bag of cat food every three weeks is ridiculous.
YOU HEAR THAT, CHICKEN? IT'S RIDICULOUS.
But my otherwise sweet, eldest feline will have none of this. NONE. The Dolla' Bill Food's been gone for two days now, and she WILL. Not. Touch it. No. Not even a sniff. She's full of hate and anger and stink-eyes. She meows. She follows me around the apartment. She meows AND follows me around the apartment. WHERE IS MY FOOD? MADE OF MONEY? I WANT TO EAT FOOD MADE OF YOUR HARD-EARNED CASH, BROAD.
And, damn, is she hungry.
Harley's given in and eats it. Which doesn't say much because Harley would eat Chicken, if it were possible. Which, at this rate, will be because Chicken's going to grow weak with hunger and be unable to defend herself. But that cat holds her ground. She's the type who, when really hungry, will scarf her food in minutes, only to puke it up five minutes later. Take a breath, cat. So last night, after she thought I was asleep, I heard the bell on her collar jingle on the rim of the food bowl, followed by the unmistakable sound of crunching.
Ha. Sucker. Knew she'd cave. I smirked in my sleep. Until five minutes later when she crawled into my bed, snuggled at my feet, and puked half-eaten kitty kibble onto my comforter.
So we are currently at a crossroads. A duel. Chicken armed with projectile vomit, I armed with the wallet. Start takin' bets now on who will win. My money's on Harley.