Fred’s Revenge…Thwarted!

“Bye Honey, I’m off to visit my sister.  I’ll be back in a week. Dinner is in the oven and don’t forget to feed Fred.”

Then follows that peculiar human lip smacking sound that is curiously similar to the snapping sound of a shrew’s neck in the mouth of an adult tabby cat.

As the car drives away I see the Mr. wrestling with the screen door, burdened by a bag of groceries and a full case of canned cat food.  It’s a new green label brand  with pictures that evoke fresh fish, just off the boat. It’s not his usual supermarket brand.  He has definitely gone upscale this time.

Suddenly, a scheme dawns upon my keen feline mind like a splash of fresh milk on a clean kitchen floor.  In an explosion of neurological connections, the various pieces coalesce into one coherent, foolproof plan.

I have always loathed being just a passive instrument in my own culinary fate.  All of that deferential fawning and those cutesy begging antics are demeaning to the direct descendants of the king of the jungle . If only I were to gain access to the cans I know I could slide a claw under that pop-open ring, brace with the other paw, yank and gorge myself to my heart’s content.  In this new, post plot world, I can eat as much as I want, whenever I want.  Twenty four cans of this new green label cat food will last me at least until the Mrs. returns from her trip.

This boldness of thought is reinforced by the hours that have ticked by since the breakfast feeding.  So right now, at last, I have the motivation, the resources, and most importantly, the opportunity to take control of my own alimentary destiny.

All I need to do is take advantage of the Mr’s perpetual distraction and lack of attention as he follows his standard routine of putting away the groceries, and more specifically, storing the case of cat food down in the basement.

I will stretch myself thin and lithe along the first step of the stairway, Once he starts down the steps, the Mr. will realize too late that he is about to place his ponderous weight on me instead of on the carpeted step.  For dramatic effect, I will let out the stage scream I use when the oaf prances on my tail while navigating around the kitchen floor.  He will attempt to change his stride and step over me but it will be too late.  His forward momentum will hurl his top heavy humanity down the staircase to certain death.  Maybe he will even squeak like the shrew does right before expiration.

Ok, here he comes.  Wait…  Wait…  Ugh MEOW!  Squeeeeze out from under his foot!

Thump! Thumpity Thumpity Thump! Thump! Thraaap! (Was that a vertebrae snap I just heard at the end?)

He’s awfully still.

I romp down to the basement landing, trying to hide my excitement, though I can’t quite feign concern for the Mr’s welfare.

Sniff, Sniff.   No respiration from his mouth.  (for once, his breath is better than mine)  Amazing, the body begins to cool off almost immediately after the heart stops beating.

I’ve done it!  I have released myself from the bondage of the owner – pet relationship.  By exercising my superior cat intellect and leveraging my diminutive size, I have gained full freedom over my dining schedule.

And as a bonus, the box of cat food, only moments ago destined for a high shelf in the basement, is now rendered open and shiny new cans of green label are spread all over the basement floor. Which one shall I start with?  How does a newly freed cat choose?  I think I’ll take…this one.

Wait.  Where is the pop-open ring? What does it mean:

“CAN OPENER REQUIRED” ????

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Fred is a non-fictional quadraped member of our family. He seems so innocent, 
adoring, inscrutable.