Look, I know a lot of you are wanting to contribute to George’s GoFundMe. It’s just not set up yet. What with him lacking opposable thumbs and Binks absolutely refusing to help, there have been some technical delays.
For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, let me catch you up to speed. In October of 2024, Don and I brought home an adorable *little* kitten. He used to snuggle inside of Don’s hoodie pocket, his little pink nose poking out at the big, wide world. Binks could hold him down with one paw and give him a full body bath, and Joe (ever the dog supremacist) said, “What’s that? A smudge on the couch? Hmph. Not even worth chasing.”
These formative experiences apparently had an effect on George. Apparently, one day, in his little George brain, he decreed that he would Never Be Small Again. So George commenced to eat. And eat. And eat. George ate cat food. George at dog food. George ate pieces of cheese that some careless cook (who shall remain nameless) let fall to the floor. George drank from unattended glasses of milk, and even, once, sampled coffee, but, finding its protein content much too low for the kind of bulk-up project he was attempting, went straight back to cheese scavenging.
These determined efforts on George’s part have resulted in…well. I mean, George is a mammoth cat. He’s big to begin with, without all the eating. Sometime in the first week of his coming home I said, “Don, look at that kitten’s *feet*. He’s going to be huge.”
For a while, I convinced myself it was just that. “George is a big boy,” I told myself. “Nothing wrong with that.” Healthy at Every Size, and so forth.
But then, the other day, George went out to accost the neighborhood cats, and I saw the light. There are two street cats who bounce back and forth between our house and the folks’ across the way for their meals. While they’re eating on the back porch, George tends to loom menacingly at the storm door, presumably on the principle that all food in the universe belongs to him. This particular day, he slipped out to actually join the meal. The side-by-side was, frankly, shocking. These are badass alley cats! They smoke cigarettes and bench-press their weight down at the corner gym. George *dwarfed* them.
Once I’d yanked him back in side, I said, “Look, buddy. This is it. We’re all going on a New Year’s Diet.” I mean, really, it’s just George on the diet, but I thought using “we” language might make the pill easier to swallow.
In short, it has not. George, who was loud to begin with, has raised the meow-to-rising-scream to the level of art form. He follows me about the house practicing. When that doesn’t work, he waits till I sit down in a chair and then attacks, driving his claws into my back.
Thus far, I’ve held firm, but he’s pledged to raise money for legal representation. And as soon as he figures out the whole keyboard thing, I promise I’ll post a link.
Really.
Any day now.
I swear.
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