Here is a tale of woe-ish-ness from my mind today.
It's about my oldest cat, Anna. She's feeling each of her 14 years lately, I can tell. Her favorite spots are the warmest, coziest nooks and crannies she can curl herself into, and she'll spend her days mostly just snoozing there, coming out when she's ready for attention.
As you may recall we lost our middle cat, Zoey, back in August. It's a hole that is still quite there; filled in with time and the regularity of each day, but the indentation of something missing can still be seen. During the long road that led to that sad day in August, I think some of our Very Important Standards regarding How We Treat Our Pets were inadvertently lowered.
Ipso facto: We fed Anna table scraps.
I know, I know. Bad pet parent. But it seemed like the thing to do at that moment. She was interested, I was elsewise engaged; before I knew it, I had dropped a few morsels of chicken in front of her. Morsels which she quickly gobbled up, eyes shinning, nose up and sniffing the air for more.
And now she spends her days meandering around, ever looking for that mercy-drop-of-manna from someone else's plate. As I cook she's sitting there, waiting to see what may fall. As we eat she sits watchfully by, eagerly eyeing the eratic eating styles of our seven year olds with an expectant air. And every time someone heads down the basement, to the place where All Manner Of Animal Food And Treats Are Kept, she races down like a bullet, nosing up to the pet supplies and waiting for someone to open a can.
She's become a Moocher.
And I can't stand it.