I am Bad Mummy

The cats hate me. I'm right there with them.

We went to the vets on Saturday for a booster leukaemia shot (this boggles my mind and makes me want to look into leukaemia more as I didn't think it was something that could be treated preventatively). Afterwards they went in to see the nurse for Weight Clinic. I can't believe that I go to WeightWatchers for me and feel guilty, and then have to go for someone else and feel guilty too. It's like that show about killing the kids, where they torment parents about how terrible they are and how the children are going to die early. They do it for cats too - we got heart failure, diabetes, arthritis so they were really twisting the knife. Our only defence was that we've only had the cats for six months and had adopted both the food and the habits of the previous owners along with the cats themselves.

So we have mended our cat-feeding ways and they shall soon be on the road towards losing half their body weight (a goal which neither of us feels is particularly realistic). But, obviously, not being in control of their own food, they are hating us for the imposed regime. Particularly Meatball, the bigger of the two. She's generally pretty easy-going and will submit to any number of indignities when I'm feeling playful. However, she has turned into psycho cat now and will generally just sit by her bowl in the kitchen watching us with baleful eyes and waiting for us to fill it. Seeing as I have often let my diet slide due to general moodiness and turned back into a normal human being as a result, I can definitely sympathise. But it doesn't stop me from feeling rejected when I pick her up for a cuddle and she wails in her strangled motor way (occasionally she meows like a normal cat, but she's just not very good at it consistently) and struggles to be free. Its very demoralising. Steve, on the other hand, is much less tormented and even eats less than she is given. I spy a future Slimmer of the Year in the making. I wish I was like Steve.

As you can tell, I am turning into someone ever so slightly obsessive about my cats. It's funny though, despite the cat hair, the expense (Meatball needs dental work - oi vey), and the fact that I quite often skip my breakfast in the mornings because I'm giving them theirs, I can absolutely state that they have improved the quality of my life. A few years ago, during a Christmas break from Uni, I sat around with my friends and we made a list of what we predicted for people. Despite not being particularly maternal and having no pets, they all unanimously decreed that I would be the one surrounded by children and animals in a farm somewhere (it was also decided that I'd be the least likely to be gay, which given the company was quite an obvious one). It's an idea that's stuck somehow and has become something of a mini-dream. I guess the cats, and the fact that I can care for them and look after them, has made it feel slightly more achievable.