The cats have a beef to pick with you and me.
They can’t agree whether it’s a roast beef or a corned beef. Regardless, we’re really in trouble this time.
The allegations are severe. Our crime: the invention of Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday.
The problem is not Fat Tuesday itself. Fat Tuesday enjoys a 100% feline approval rating. If it were 1994 and the cats were dorky adolescents, they might call it Phat Tuesday.
(I have just added to my list of crimes.)
The problem is that Fat Tuesday is unaccompanied by Buttered-On-Both-Sides Monday, Well-Upholstered Wednesday, Blubbery-Tubby Thursday, and that holiest day of obligation, Chonky Friday.
Hold onto your pork-pie hats, because it gets worse. You may want to cover your own cat’s ears before reading further.
Not only do we quarantine corpulence to one day. Starting tomorrow, we may even “fast” or “give something up” for Lent.
I know. We have the dexterity to open infinite cans of anchovies. We are capable of administering spray-cheese directly into our own mouths. And here we are, consciously choosing to eat … less.
Hips heard that, and he fainted. Fortunately, there was a tureen of giblets to catch him. He is now eating them off his own phat physique.
But the situation is critical. We spend all year rescuing cats from hopeless situations, only to hurl ourselves directly into one.
At least, that is what the cats call it when they see mammals avoiding bologna, buttercream, and all other reasons to live. I mean, what are we going to do if there is some sort of frankfurter emergency, and all we have in the house are those vegan dogs that smell like flatulence? Olive wants to know, because Olive cares. Olive cares, because we are responsible for Olive’s breakfasts.
There may be one bright bead in this preposterous parade. Okay, so humans are unqualified to handle such matters of national security as Whoppers and kabobs. But maybe all this self-denial stuff has a point.
Anka heard someone say that humans tighten their belts so they can let loose their better angels. We’re not just saying “no” to nuggets; we’re saying “yes” to a season of soul-searching.
Anka’s not so sure about that. But if “better angels” can be breaded and deep-fried, he’s here for it. And if we’re trying to be better humans, the best place to start is Tabby’s Place. Where else do you get to ladle out unconditional love, seven days a week?
Maybe Lent is not about the cheeseburgers we turn down, but the way we show up for someone smaller than ourselves. Which is to say, we show up with cheeseburgers, so they can become larger.
The cats will do their best to understand our Fat Tuesday. At least it explains the invention of the muffaletta, which in addition to being an excellent name for a kitten, is a sandwich so tall, it cannot be consumed unless you are equipped with a flip-top head. It explains beignets, which are what happens when you deep-fry your existential crisis and see what happens.
It may even explain why some gaunt soul first looked at a crawfish and said, “I think I’ll eat that.”
If we had lent the cats our ears, they could have talked us out of this before it got out of hand. It is too late for us now.
But fortunately, it is never too late to feed the cats. If we are going to leave all those beefs, bratwursts, and briskets unsupervised, the Tabby’s Place residents will step into the breach.
Or roll, as the case may be.
Laissez les bons chats rouler!
Those of us who are human and a bit more zoftig can sympathize. But for cats (even though it isn’t the healthiest)’ it is incredibly cute!