Feeding a feisty old feline.

hermandmevia Daily Prompt: Partake

Never invite a very old pussycat to partake of your ice cream sandwich.
We have a seriously ancient old moggie named Hermione who has grown very skinny with age. She wasn’t always thin… shortly after she adopted us she grew a backside as big as a Buick. However, in the last four or five years, every calorie she consumes seems to produce a purr; she no longer gains weight.
Her bowl is always full, of course. We share our home with four cats, and they have access to us while we sleep. We’re very careful not to let them get hungry enough to eat our faces.
However, although Hermione spends quite a bit of time at the bowl, we wonder whether she gets enough to eat.
We also worry that she may not have enough teeth to break down her cat food. One of her canines is gone, but we haven’t opened her mouth to see what else is missing lest we find that remaining fang sunk deep into our hands.
I started sneaking her cans of soft food. This involves locking her into a room that her progeny can’t enter, and listening to their cries as they complain that grandma gets special treatment.
There had to be another way… and I found it one night after dinner.
As I sat in the living room, enjoying a creamy ice cream sandwich, I thought to myself, “I should be sharing this with Hermione.”
Like an idiot, I called her over. I scraped a little bit of vanilla ice cream on my thumbnail, and placed it in front of the cat. I put the tiniest bit right under her nose.
She trembled at the cold, and licked herself clean. Then she looked at me with newly predatory eyes, and lunged for my thumb, which she licked exuberantly.
Hermie liked this stuff.
For a few nights I kept scraping her portions on to my thumb, until I finally got the good sense to scoop the vanilla from my sandwich using a plastic spoon. Hermione’s portions grew bigger and bigger.
She became more insistent, too. At first, I had to call her for her ice cream. Soon, she started jumping on me as soon as she saw I was holding a sandwich, and dancing (claws out) on my lap as I tried to get it open.
It wasn’t long before she decided she had a right to taste every food that the old lady was eating. She’d watch me eat Cheerios intently, telepathically communicating that she wanted the milk at the bottom of the bowl. She’d meow her outrage if I lit into leftover meatloaf; I quickly learned it was smart to put a few chunks in her plate.
She is, at this point, too empowered. One day last week, I was in my arm chair lunching on a chicken salad sandwich… and I didn’t call her. She jumped on my lap and stared at me. “Hi, Sweetie!” I said, in my syrupiest voice. “Would you like to try some chicken salad when I’m through?”
She gave me a withering look, and stuck her whole head inside my sandwich.
I don’t know about you, but I have reservations about eating chicken salad once a cat’s head has been in it.
I gave her the sandwich, and she ate the entire thing.
The damn thing is she ate my whole lunch, and didn’t gain any weight.
Betcha I did.