By L.S. Fisher
Even overweight, cats instinctively know the cardinal rule: when fat, arrange yourself in slim poses.
~John Weitz
Katrina, my plus-sized Manx cat, and I are on a weight reduction program. I exercise at the gym three nights a week. Well, not exactly three times a week, but I seriously consider it that often. I take my workout clothes to the office and usually think twice before I accept a dinner invitation that conflicts with my exercise schedule. This is an improvement over prior attempts to squeeze into my skinny jeans. One of my more noteworthy failures was when I stopped exercising to Denise Austin's "Hit the Spot Abs" video. After an initial thirty-day burst of energy, I began to watch it while lying on the couch with Katrina on my lap.
Katrina, on the other hand, blissfully unaware of her obesity, yowls until I fill her dish with cat food. In warm weather, she supplements her diet with a huntress lifestyle. On cold days, I let her stay inside and laze around the house. Her belly pooches out as she waddles from the sunny spot in the kitchen to the sunny spot in front of the living room patio door. Her only exercise is watching squirrels scamper along the deck railing.
I double check the date on the appointment card from the vet. "Well, Katrina, we might as well go get our butts chewed out." Katrina's vet is great with animals, but impatient with owners who allow their pets to gain too much weight. He is sure to give me a stern lecture now that Katrina has become a barrel-bellied beast. She swishes her short stubby tail and closes her green eyes as I brush her fur to a glossy sheen.
I cram her rear-first into a one-size-fits-most pet carrier for the trip to the vet's office.
"This cat needs to lose weight," Dr. Gough says as he runs his hands down her sides in a futile effort to feel her ribs.
"Somehow I knew you would say that."
"She has worms too," he continues. "I'm surprised she can catch anything as fat as she is."
I try to stuff an uncooperative Katrina back into the carrier. "She's really quick when she's chasing something," I say. Just last week, a snake tried to slither into a hole with Katrina hot on his tail. He finally got tired of her claws raking his slick backside and turned on her — hissing and chomping the air — while she continued to aggravate him. Not sure what kind of snake the little spitfire was, I threw walnuts at him and grabbed the scratching, clawing cat. I retreated into my house, slamming and bolting the door as if the snake would follow me inside.
"Apparently, she isn't getting enough exercise to offset what she eats," Dr. Gough said. "She needs diet food, and worm medication."
I gather up Katrina's new supplies and leave Dr. Gough's office. I briefly consider going to the gym while I'm in town. I have Katrina with me and, well, I just couldn't possibly leave her in the car, yowling in the pet carrier.
When we get home, I measure out a miniscule portion of Katrina's new diet food. She gazes at me with a bewildered expression, and her eyes shift from feed sack to her bowl, where the fish skeleton design is barely covered.
"Don't give me that look," I say. "You heard what Dr. Gough said as well as I did. This is it — all you get."
I grab a bag of chips, plop down on the couch and turn on the news. The brand of cat food I just fed Katrina has been recalled due to a few isolated deaths. Oh, crap! Here we are, two girls on a health kick and now one of us has eaten possibly tainted food. I fire up my computer and am somewhat comforted by the knowledge that Katrina's specific formula is not included in the recall.
After six weeks, we return for a moment-of-truth weigh-in. Katrina lost three pounds, and now weighs a svelte fourteen pounds. Her skin flops loosely around her belly when she trots and waves from side to side like a furry flag flapping in the breeze.
I tell Dr. Gough, "She acts like she's starving all the time."
Unconvinced, he says, "She still needs to lose a little more weight." I sympathize with her because I heard the exact same news at my doctor's appointment last week.
When we get home from the vet's office, I take the carrier out of the car and notice it feels heavier than the barbells at the gym. The weather has cooled slightly, and I decide it is no longer too hot for a girl wearing a fur coat. I open the carrier door and leave Katrina outside to play until evening.
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The next morning, I let Katrina outside and notice the carrier on the porch. I'm ready for work and carrying my satchel and purse. I set them down and grunt as I bend to pick up the carrier. "Bending's hard on fat girls," I tell Katrina, as if she doesn't already know that.
When I plunk the carrier just inside the door, a toad leaps off it and lands on the kitchen carpet. I don't want a toad loose in the house so I contemplate how to catch the little critter.
I grab a paper towel and cup it inside my hand like a catcher's mitt. I reach for the toad and he takes a flying leap down the hallway where he sits defiantly on the floor. I creep a few steps closer and reach for him. Hop! Reach. Hop! Reach. Hop! Gotcha!
Just as success seems imminent, he jumps out of my paper-toweled hand and back onto the floor. The chase is on. Finally I grab him not so gently. I open the door and toss the toad onto the front porch. Luckily for him, Katrina is in the yard chasing something else.
I wash my hands thoroughly with anti-bacterial soap although my skin has not come into contact with the toad. I don't want my hands to break out in warts. Or, is that just one of those old superstitions?
I lock the door and notice the toad motionless in the exact spot where I tossed him. He is as gray as the weathered boards beneath him, tilted slightly on his side, one tiny webbed foot wedged in the crack between the boards.
"Oh, no! I killed him." Katrina, unaware of the lifeless toad, pounces in the opposite direction in pursuit of a squirrel.
Feeling remorse for my rough handling of the toad, I reach to touch the leathery skin I had carefully avoided earlier. As my finger nears the tiny still body, he leaps to the edge of the porch to make his escape.
The movement attracts Katrina's interest, and she streaks across the yard with youthful enthusiasm. I watch her and contemplate how winded I am after the additional activity this morning. Not to be outdone by an injured toad and an overweight cat, I slip my key into the lock and return for my exercise clothes.
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