Each of the cats had the same disappointing experience upon coming to live at the caretaker’s house. In their previous homes, the hoomans had taken part in an activity called “cooking.” The cats quickly learned that if they were diligent, they could scoop up goodies that dropped to the floor in the process. Then they learned that if they were sneaky, they could orchestrate an (ahem) accident that would create additional spillage. There is nothing quite like the victory march that follows tripping a caretaker while she is carrying a Thanksgiving turkey to the table. Ultimately, the cats learned that if they were bold, they could ascend to tables and counters to graze upon whatever was available there. The only mystery they have as yet been unable to crack is the big metal box that emits cold breath. They have conjectured that its wonders are available only to those who have opposable thumbs, and that is, alas, the only way in which they are inferior to hoomans.
After having such happy experiences in others’ kitchens, the cats were devastated to learn that their current caretaker does not cook on a regular basis. At one time she had lived with several other hoomans called “family” and had apparently prepared meals for them every day. But even then her efforts at cooking were not gourmet events. Because most of the food she served was prefabricated in some way, she used to joke that the secret to her cooking was in knowing which box or can to buy. Decent cooks start their gumbo with a roux. The caretaker started hers with a brown powder from a box. Jambalaya? Different box, similar powder, only red, not brown. Her one success in cooking from scratch is to use her mother’s recipe for creamed corn, so it is no coincidence that her son speaks quite fondly of it. That may be the only real food she ever served.
The first time Bear saw the caretaker pull out a pan, her heart leapt and her step quickened. Finally! With visions of turkey legs dancing in her head, Bear waited for something good to fall to the floor, or better yet, to be offered up with gravy on a plate. But poor Bear waited in vain. There was nothing about the term “vegetable stir-fry” that resonated with her carnivorous soul. Yet hope sprang eternal, so she followed the caretaker to the couch, in hopes of getting a morsel worth eating. But it was not to be. The caretaker munched on broccoli, onions, snow peas, peppers, carrots, and mushrooms, and when she put down her empty plate, Bear strolled over to check it out. Upon sniffing every square centimeter of the plate, Bear turned away in equal parts of disgust and disappointment. Next time, she thought, there will be something worth eating. But when this first disappointment was followed only by plate after plate of vegetation, Bear became suspicious. Her fears were confirmed when the caretaker said that terrible word: “Vegetarian.” Just consider, gentle reader, what fools these vegetarians be! Mushrooms are fungi. Carrots and potatoes grow submerged in dirt. Beans and tomatoes grow on vines and have green worms crawling all over them. Apples grow on trees, where birds can sit on them. (How much better just to eat the bluejay than its chair!)
Part of Buddy’s indoctrination into the household was learning the caretaker’s terrible secret. He first thought Bear was telling him that the caretaker was a veterinarian, so he was understandably upset for a different reason. But the actual truth was not a lot better. It is a very good thing that the caretaker buys cat food that contains meat. Otherwise, her opposable thumbs would be next on the cats’ menu.
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