Mother, Me and the Feeding the Cats

A few months back, my mother, the most industrious person I know, was in the hospital with double pneumonia and some other problems. Because she had been on some sleep medication that wasn't allowing her to sleep, my brothers and I realized that she wasn't thinking clearly. Fortunately, after some investigation and modifications of her medication, she was her old self again.

While Mother was in the hospital, she was handing out instructions like a drill sergeant to each of her kids. One of mine was to be sure to feed her cats. So being the obedient daughter that I am, and due to the fact that I couldn't talk anyone else into it, I went to her house to feed the cats.

Now, Mother's cats don't like anyone but Mother. I've discovered that cats are sort of finicky in their ways. She had told me to leave them outside, not that I ever saw them anyway because they particularly don't like me. I looked in the house and found a large bag of cat food. Mother never buys anything but the large container of anything.

Dipping the feed out into a container, I placed it outside where I knew the cats would find it. I noticed that the food pellets were much smaller than the Meow Mix I feed my cat, but I figured these two old scary cats must like it.

When I went back the next day to feed the cats again, I noticed they must not have been as hungry as I thought because most of the food was still in the dish. I freshened it anyway and went down to visit Mother in the hospital.

The first words out of Mother's mouth were, "Did you feed the cats like I told you?"

"Yes, Mother, I fed the cats. They didn't eat much, though."

"What do you mean they didn't eat it? They usually gobble it up."

"All I know is I took the cat food out of the bag, put it in the dish and set it out there for them, and today most of it was still there." I could tell she wasn't too happy with me, but she let the subject drop.

When I took Mother home from the hospital, she walked up to the door and looked into the dish containing the cats' food. "Is this what you fed them?"

"Well, yeah. I got it out of the bag by the back door."

"That's not cat food. That's rabbit food."

"The bag said cat food. Where's the cat food?"

"It's in those boxes marked Kitty Litter. I cleaned those large containers out and put the bag of cat food in there. I told you that." Granted, she may have because I have been guilty of not listening too closely when I'm not really interested, a problem the hubby calls the Huh Syndrome.

"Well, in that case, where do you keep the kitty liter?"

"I don't need kitty liter. I have outside cats, Nutty," she said as she shook her head. That's her pet name for me, Nutty. Don't laugh, it's a lot better than what she used to call me. "I'll probably have rabbits coming from all over since you've been feeding them, and here it is almost from gardening season."

"Why do you have rabbit food anyway," I asked.

"To feed your brother's rabbits that he raised to eat and now doesn't have the heart to kill. It sure is a good thing that you didn't marry a farmer. You wouldn't be much help to him at all."

As a matter of fact, that's one place where she and I are both in agreement. I would have made some poor farmer really miserable, but then again, I've always heard hogs will eat just about anything.