The Treat Monster

Angelic-ish Coco

Apparently, after a certain hour of the day (noon? 3 PM? 5?) I become a MASSIVELY scary-ass cat doormat. Either that or our porch visiting ferals are only on the feral clock after the sun has passed it’s zenith.

First the guilt trips though. Apparently all cats are either Parochial School Catholics or Orthodox Jews. Essentially, they’re the bad conscience scolds of the animal kingdom.

Last night, I came home after a full day of work, doc appointments and general socializing to find Rocco, Gaston, Greta and Coco all, ostentatiously mind you, checking their time pieces (Tag Heuer Carreras, natch) wondering ‘where have you been all day, missy? Don’t you know we’ve strict schedules to keep?!’.

Coco was appreciative -- if an attitude of ‘yeah thanks but whatevs. AND where have you been, you bitch,’ can be termed ‘appreciative.’

Gaston (AKA Pavarotti)

Gaston was all ‘pat me NOW. No. NOW! OK, now give me dinner. But wait...where you goin?’, Come back here and pat me. Jetzt! Ahora! şimdi! I’ve got an important meeting to get to. Step it up, woman! ’

Fierce Greta

Greta patiently waited under Jen’s van, giving me the ultra effective, patented guilt look. The gaze that says ‘I’m not going to say a word but, you know, we don’t ALL have opposable thumbs and those cans of Fancy Feast Flaked Salmon don’t open themselves....if you get my drift and I think you do.’

Rocco who's all 'don't bother me, woman, I'm eating.'

Where was Rocco, our tuxedoed feral who we nursed back from a Freddy Kruger-ish mauling? He comes out from behind a potted plant, swaggering in a posh Algonquin Hotel kind of a way, to say ‘who are you, you badly dressed witch? Oh and, by the by, where’s dinner?’

Feeling deeply abashed, of course, I hustled to bring out their evening repast.

How I appear to our herd of cat after a certain hour of the day.

Then, as if on cue, Gaston. Greta and Rocco zipped off into the shadows as though I was that old meany Godzilla who never brings them treats, catnip, Fancy Feast and sometimes Chicken of the Sea even.

Mega sigh. This must be how the parents of teenagers feel, huh?

I checked, just a few minutes later and, sure enough, the three of them were chowing down. They each glanced up at me and, as one,  said, (swear to Kali they spoke), ‘you’re not gonna come out here and embarrass me in front of my friends are you?’

I signed ‘no’ and ‘eat, eat’ as I closed the door.

Later, Coco deigned to join me while I read Paul Krasner’s 1961 interview with Hugh Hefner (a fossil brained relic even then) in bed. Guilt trips can only last so long, doncha know.