So…I took Little Joe to the vet last week. Longtime readers of the site can probably see where this is going, but in case you just got here: Little Joe is fat. Said fatness is kind of a continuing saga between me and the vet, with Dr. Dan suggesting that I put the cats on a diet and me giggling hysterically for ten minutes, wiping my eyes, seeing that he’s actually not joking, and promising that I will “try,” by which I mean that I totally won’t, because the most effective weapon in my getting-them-to-stop-pestering-me arsenal is kibble and I won’t turn it in.

Well, The Ballad of Your Cat Is Morbidly Obese / La-La-La I Can’t Hear You took a turn last Thursday when Joe tipped the scales at 18 pounds.

“Eight-teen? That can’t be right.”
“Um.”
“Look, I know he’s fat, but he’s not that fat. I think the scale was wrong, weigh him again.”
“…You’re right — the scale was wrong.”
“See?”
“It’s actually eighteen point three.”

I mean…that is some fat right there, people. You know those bags of Hecker’s flour? Little Joe is eighteen of those bags. Little Joe is at least two newborn babies. Little Joe is, as of last Thursday, now known merely as “Joe” at the vet’s office, because, as Dr. Dan so eloquently put it, “…Not so much.”

Eighteen pounds. I thought out loud that perhaps his winter coat accounted for a couple of those pounds; Dr. Dan disagreed. I observed conversationally that life is short and he likes to eat; Dr. Dan wondered in response how I would feel about that philosophy when Joe got diabetes and I had to give him shots three times a day. I announced in a confident tone that surely I could find a solution besides putting the cats on a diet; Dr. Dan agreed that cutting Joe in half would certainly solve the problem.

“Or you could just make sure he gets more exercise.”

Right. “More than” what? Because Little Joe already engages in the following activities on a daily basis, and it is quite evident that they do not have the aerobic effects one might assume:

Purring so loudly that he chokes himself

Sitting on the windowsill and wiggling his butt for, literally, three hours in the sincere belief that the minute the window opens, he can descend on the bird feeder and eat like a king

Batting my neat stack of Netflix DVDs onto the floor

Pouncing, in the manner of that Simpsons where the puppies keep arc-ing over Homer’s lap and ganking his chips, on a loose thread on my shirt, losing purchase, and scrabbling all the way down claws-out so that my midriff looks like a discarded storyboard from Freddy vs. Jason — did I mention that he only does this while I’m sitting on the toilet? Because he does

Climbing onto the microwave to play with a Granny Smith apple

Curling up on a ten-inch-square pillow and trying to balance his bulk on a surface clearly inadequate to the task

Pulling towels down from the rack, dragging them into the hallway, and sleeping on them

Mounting the other cat while for some reason looking horribly put out by the whole thing — because apparently it’s Hobey’s idea to get molested during his nap

Stretching front leg to Inspector Gadget lengths under front door and “waving” at the neighbors’ cats

Bounding onto shoelace, sitting down, and bathing

Insisting on being allowed to enter a padded envelope; heroically attempting, and failing, to exit the padded envelope; sitting rather patiently until the padded envelope is removed from his head, then pitching the mother of all big tails and storming away

Interfering with the breaking-down of cardboard boxes in such a way that a length of packing tape gets stuck to his paw pad; tripod-ing all around the living room and refusing to let me catch him and take the tape off

Attacking my scarf

Attacking my sock

Attacking the drawstring of my pajama bottoms

Attacking belts hanging in the closet

Attacking dresses hanging in the closet

Attacking afghan fringe

Conducting the aforementioned attacks in an out-of-nowhere style that is both reminiscent of cartoons and quite impressive given his size — I’ll be tying a ribbon on a birthday present and not see him around anywhere, and then two seconds later, “[Shhhhoop!]” and he’s all over it

Reacting Beatlemania-ishly to the MGM lion

Trying to perch on a bike helmet

Running away from the bike helmet

Attacking garbage bag

Fleeing from garbage bag

Fleeing from me when I try to get the coffee grounds out of his tail

Writhing orgasmically during brushing

Pouncing on a bud of garlic

Pouncing on the end of an onion that missed the trash can

Having a SHIT FIT in the direction of a sunflower-seed hull, and I don’t have the first damn idea what his deal is there, but I think it might follow the same principle as my loathing of Styrofoam — in any case, he bats it, it makes a little “[krch]” noise, and then IT IS ON, and you’d think fluffing yourself up to the size of a bear cub so rapidly that it reverses every ion in Park Slope would be good for at least two hundred calories, but I guess not

Not hearing “I don’t think cats like feta cheese,” sampling it anyway, and going all Camille for twenty minutes

Yodelling displeasure at vet visit

Shedding like a mofo

Walking back and forth past Hobey’s tail forty-eight times all “do dee dooooo, just walking arouuuuund,” then leaping onto it

When that fails to get a reaction, climbing up onto a piece of furniture and leaping onto Hobey’s tail from a height

Actually popping a tiny eyebrow all “what’s his problem” when Hobey gets mad

Escaping into the hallway when I take out the recycling; galloping up the stairs to the fourth floor; milling crazily on the landing because that’s where the building runs out of stairs, and thank God, because Fatty Carlyle is fast; protesting his recapture; pedaling like Lance Armstrong all the way back down and doing that creepy owl-head Exorcist bitey-gurgly thing; bathing disappointedly for twenty minutes afterwards

Not allowing ear to be turned inside out 48 times in a row

Having no sense of humor about it when the 49th time succeeds

Getting blatantly, ungraciously jealous of the tiniest scrap of attention given to Hobey, including negative attention, so that if the other cat gets up on the dresser and starts nibbling eye liner, he wants a turn too

Hissing, which he almost never does, so he sucks at it; Hobey hates everything and can hiss while sleeping (and does, daily; see above re: mounting), but Joe never got the hang, so if they get into a real, mutual fight instead of the usual kind where Hobey is genuinely trying to end him for all time but Joe thinks they’re just playing, Hobey’s all “[FFFFFT!]” and Joe is all “[…krrkf?]” — sad, really

Yarfing up a hairball, another thing at which Hobey is an old pro — the Hobe can fling a furb while walking, but Joe has to take twenty minutes about it and be a huge drama queen ([“Skkkk-KKKAAK!]” “Okay, we get it, God.”), and then he has to pounce on the paper towel when I try to clean it up

Endeavoring to create an actual Foley design around his look of innocence when he has obviously eaten, broken, or barfed on something of value, to wit: “[Spoink!]”

Clambering as gawkily as possible into the bathtub for a drink of water — dude, just jump up and over, it is ten inches off the ground

Drinking out of my water glass using his paw (…I don’t know), knocking over the glass, getting wet, and racing out of the room like — okay, you know Rocket Dog shoes? You know the symbol? Like that

Carefully inverse-correlating the size of the meow to the level of my irritation, so that if I am about to stuff him into the broiler, he summons the tiniest, frailest “…mee” he can to avoid getting killed

Attacking the Swiffer

Making a big show of thinking about attacking the Roomba, deciding he “just doesn’t feel like it right now,” sitting very still and reciting brave mantras, then hiding…in a doorway? I…don’t know

Getting his ass beat by the Hobe and not having the sense to give up, even though Hobey is doing the feline equivalent of holding a younger sibling at arm’s length by the head while he flails and windmills arou– wait, he’s not “doing the equivalent” of anything. He’s doing exactly that. He’s ke-thwonking Joe away with his hind legs over and over while basically doing a crossword, and Joe is just not getting it

Getting stuck in a shirt

Getting stuck on a shelf

…He really really hates sunflower seed hulls. The hell? And can I ask why he flips shit over a tiny seed coating smaller than his claw, but despite having knocked over my bike and almost gotten pancaked by it like seventeen times, he will still pelt right next to the kickstand and knock it over like it’s a day at the beach?

Being extremely dumb, and also very very weird

So, diet it is, then. The cats will adjust — they always do — but the first week of rationing is going to suck the big one. Wish me luck.

March 20, 2006

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