Ok, I’m blowing my cover. I’m not totally solitary. But I am the only one I actually cook for most days. My first dog was allergic to so many things (grass among them, yes seriously) that I had to make her dog food. She ultimately died of pancreatitis brought on by her love of garbage. Literally – straight out of the can. But she had her standards. She never touched the cans of our neighbors to the north, but looooooved that of those to the south. Kim was Italian. Need I say more? And polite? She, the dog that is, was tall and graceful enough that she could stand up, paws on the edge of the can, and pick out just the morsels she wanted. All the animals I have now can eat foods appropriate to them, though I share apples, carrots, and vegetable trimmings with the rabbits. But that’s another story.
The dog’s conoisseurship may have had social implications as well. The north neighbors tended to argue in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol they’d lubricated themselves with. Those on the other side had children who were friends with ours. And I believe I mentioned that Kim was a great Italian cook.
But I digress. This is about cats. Mine. The lowest shelf on the rolling cart at the end of my work table sits directly in the path of winter’s morning sun. No matter what (no matter what) I put on that shelf, a cat would find a way to lay down in or on it. I finally declared victory – theirs. I keep kitchen towels on it. They’re soft, I don’t wind up with cat hair in the bowls any more. And I don’t have cat hair in the towels because . . . I cover them with two other towels! They’ve been sacrificed for the greater good of the “good” towels. I love fleeting moments of brilliance.