A more accurate title for this piece would be “Zoe Gets Forced to Diet.” And she is not the least bit happy about it.
Fans and friends, I, Zoe the Fabulous Feline, was humbled—yes, I was!—to hear that so many readers enjoyed my last story, Zoe Gets Fed, about how I manipulate my poor hapless human to feed me on demand. It’s a fun thing I do, although Emily may not agree, and it was a fun tale to tell. This one? Not so much. This is a tale of true woe, a harrowing ordeal to recall.
It was Vets Day. No, not that kind of vet, but the kind where I get taken against my will to a place of horrors. Institutional beige walls, stainless steel exam tables. You would think that they would put a warmed and preferably fluffy towel or something on those cold surfaces, right? But this is a place where felines, canines and all manner of creatures are subjected to inhumane treatment. What humans call medical care. When I saw her bring out the carrier, I should’ve known what was coming and hidden myself away, but alas, I did not.
I think I’m off to get my claws clipped. But noooooo . . . instead I got poked, prodded, and pinched. Yes, pinched! They pinched my skin together to create a fold of fat (their word, not mine) and stuck a needle right into it. Meee-ooooooow-ch!
Forget all that. Here’s the real rub. I am being put on a diet! Apparently, the vet thought I looked just a mite too chubby for my own good. Apparently, he has not looked in the mirror recently. He put me on that damned scale, and told my human that she is feeding me too much.
I could not believe what I heard! Feeding me too much? I have to practically beg to get fed. Dear friends, you know from my last story that I have to go around opening the kitchen cabinets, all of them—over and over again—until she tires of closing them and gives me what I demand. But the vet said that if I did not lose weight, I would become diabetic. Die-a-what? Diabetic, diet . . . I don’t know. All I know is that I now have an intense dislike of words that begin with di.
“First,” said the not-too-svelte vet, “remove that self-feeder of dry food.” (I am having a panic attack just remembering his words.) Then he told her that, on any day when I’m having a three-ounce can of wet food, I can have only one-third cup of dry food. One third cup? For the entire day? Isn’t that called starvation? I complained like crazy but nobody listened to me.
My human is such a robot; she did exactly as she was told. I bet if her vet put her on a diet, she wouldn’t like it one bit and she’d cry like a little girl! When we got home, she removed the self-feeder and I maintained my cool. She measured exactly one-third cup of dry food into my feeding bowl and put it down in front of me, telling me that this was going to hurt her more than me. Sure, easy for her to say. That puny amount of food would not satisfy a bird! Still, I maintained my cool.
Then she patted me on the head and tried to look like she felt bad about taking away my food. And I swiped that little dish so hard the food went flying all over the place. Then I walked away, cool as could be (while giving her‘The EYE’ treatment).
She’s lucky I didn’t bite the hand that didn’t feed me.