Reflections - An End to Grazing (Part 2)
Cats Gobble - Rills, Ande, and Gilbert
Dr. Wheelock had ordered an end to grazing. Diet food alone wouldn’t solve the cats’ weight problem. Ande, our largest and grazer-in-chief, had to lose four pounds. Rills, the feistiest and once smallest, had to lose one. Gilbert, the timid and late bloomer, didn’t have to lose any. He would suffer because of his brothers.
I glanced at the two bowls on the tile floor by the sliding glass door. After the cats’ ordeal riding to and from the vet’s, they needed to calm down. Removing their kibble would increase the cats’ anxiety. I left the food. “Ready for our walk, Spence?”
Our shoes crunched gravel on the country road and our minds crunched meal schedules.
“You eat three times a day. The boys should eat when you do.” Spence believed in feeding his fellas.
“My lunch time varies too much. Twice a day will work better.” I paused to admire birdsfoot trefoil. “And I’m not always home for lunch.”
He scoffed. “You’re gone once a month.”
An exaggeration. Our argument continued. We settled on two cat meals. He would set the bowls out when he prepped breakfast and dinner. I would take them away when I washed dishes.
Simple. Maybe.
After dinner, I snatched the cats’ food. I didn’t want to pour the old crunchies back in the canister, but setting the bowls on the counter wouldn’t end Ande’s grazing. He could jump up for mouthfuls. A cupboard? Nope. The cupboards were full. I scanned the room and rejected the refrigerator—crowded inside plus the cats perched on top. I chose the oven. The bottom had a storage drawer containing an old griddle and a few casseroles. I yanked the drawer open and set the bowls inside an empty casserole.
The tabbies gawked in puzzlement and pity. I had the feeling if they could, they would have called 911 and reported my irrational behavior. Gilbert stroked my arm with his paw to sooth me.
And they followed me on tip-paws until I settled at my desk to write—a normal activity.
The next morning, Spence cooked breakfast and set the cat bowls out. The felines dashed to the food. Ande and Rills shared a bowl—a first. Gilbert, who had always waited for his brothers to leave before he ate, dug into the second bowl. All three gobbled.
Gilbert raised his head, licked his whiskers, and peeked at his gulping brothers. He dove back into his breakfast. I expected the cats to vomit from the gorging. They didn’t. Midway through their frenzy, Ande pawed kibble onto the floor and snarfed the food from there.
To eliminate the gobbling, we left the bowls out for over two hours at first. Each time I walked toward the bowls, Ande or Rills scurried to snatch another bite. I never took the food away while they ate. I didn’t want to increase their anxiety. Instead I checked for cat ablutions or napery then grabbed the bowls. As soon as I lifted the food, baths and naps halted. The cats trailed me to the oven and watched me tuck the bowls away.
Dr. Wheelock predicted the fellas would adapt to the routine in two weeks. I doubt she would have envisioned their adaptive behaviors.
Gilbert reverted to his Ferdinand the Bull inner self. He leapt into the sink, stood on hind legs, and knocked ornaments off the window sill to reach his goal—my gladiolas. His need exceeded my barriers. He pawed and munched petals, propelling the vase into the sink. The glass didn’t break, but the flowers bent at awkward angles.
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| Glads |
Ande’s idea of diet supplements differed from Gilbert’s.
Ande often ate kibble off the floor, his preferred serving dish. And to end his paper ball chase game, he dropped the ball in the cat water fountain, fished the ball out, and swallowed the soggy treat. He combined these two activities for his diet supplement. Around the litter boxes, Ande scavenged stray paper pellets—unsoiled ones, thank goodness. The compacted paper pellets, meant to absorb cat urine, resembled kibble. Luckily, they didn’t have any calories.
His second tactic employed a red flannel elephant. Ande dragged the sixteen- by thirteen-inch toy over his food bowl. Camouflage? Perhaps he hid the kibble from his brothers or from humans.
Rills didn’t invent a new tactic. He escalated his begging while Spence or our son Charlie cooked. Charlie let Rills sniff ingredients. Usually that convinced Rills he didn’t want the ramen noodles, wonton soup, or kielbasa.
Spence told his buddy, “You're a pest. Get down.” The pesky cat didn’t. He loved the chicken which Spence frequently roasted for me. The increased begging netted chicken treats for Rills and Gilbert. Overweight Ande didn't like chicken—not an issue for his diet.
I’ll give Dr. Wheelock credit. With their new behaviors, the cats calmed—by the end of the third week. Then? Full panic. Saturday morning we fed them and packed to attend a friend’s funeral in Cleveland. We tucked the food bowls away, picked up tote bags, and headed for the door.
Ande galloped to the oven. He wailed. Experience had taught him tote bags indicated an extended absence. Charlie caught up on sleep over the weekend. Cats prancing atop of the sleeper wouldn’t wake the weary man. Although Ande had just eaten, his behavior suggested he feared no one would be home to serve him dinner.
Spence stooped and petted the cat. “Don’t worry big fella. We’ll be back.”
Ande whimpered.
When Spence and I returned mid afternoon, the cats met us at the door. None rushed to the oven. Their tummy alarms hadn’t rung yet.
Though the vet emphasized humans were the boss, the cats influenced the routine. The tabbies herded the first human out of bed toward the oven drawer. Hence, we fed the cats at 5:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m—not necessarily when meals were prepared.
Charlie got the brunt of the morning schedule. Hungry cats stalked him on work days. They perched at the top of the steps when he climbed up from his basement man cave. He no longer could enjoy a leisurely sip of tea in his china cup. Needy cats circled his kitchen chair, swished their tails, and mewed demands. Charlie didn’t always wait until 5:00 to set their bowls out.
By late afternoon, the tabbies hovered in the great room. If a human approached the kitchen, they hustled to the oven. Using their heads like workers directing traffic around country road construction, they nodded at the person then stared at the drawer with the food bowls.
Most of this pressure landed on Spence, who cooked dinners. He pointed at the clock. “It’s not time fellas. You’ve got forty minutes . . .” Or an hour and fifteen minutes. Times varied. His clock lessons never satisfied the cats. If Spence stood beside the oven and their tummy clocks registered hungry, Spence instructed in vain.
Because I never gave cats food while I prepared mine, they only pestered me on weekends when Spence and Charlie slept in. Three docile cats met me at the bedroom door and jockeyed for cuddles—my start-of-the-day routine with them. Ande pushed forward.
“Good morning, big boy.” I picked him up. “Are you losing weight?” He purred. I set him down because two others waited.
Gilbert rose onto his hind paws for easier lifting. We snuggled. He wiggled free.
And Rills, who usually played keep-away when I collected hugs, stepped up. He was definitely lighter. We touched noses and rubbed heads. Then all three cats sprinted down the hall to the kitchen and waited by the oven.
No more gorging occurred. If the human didn’t top up the bowl with fresh kibble, the cats led the server to the food canister and waited for the extra crunchies before eating.
Though the tabbies didn’t hover over the bowls, they did come back for seconds a little later. Sometimes we neglected to pick up the food. Our forgetfulness didn’t matter. When it dawned on us the cats’ mealtime had ended, the tabbies had gone—napping with the old teddy bear, excavating in litter boxes, or staring out windows.
Did the cats lose weight?
Lifting the cats before their morning meal, they felt lighter. After they ate—not so much. But Rills was no longer heavier than Gilbert, and Rills slimmed down to be the smallest again. One cat lost weight.
The July 2025 vet appointment will provide accurate updates. We’ll stuff the tabbies inside their carriers and lug them—pacing and whining—to the Maverick. The trip of howling protests might even help them shed a few ounces.
Ande with Elephant over Food Bowl
