This is Chester. Back on the bed.
Another argument lost, another smug ‘I’ve got the better of you, again’ look.
Time to move on, pick a battle I think I can win.
Food. There’s the old wives tale, that cats love fish, and it’s true to a certain extent.
Chester doesn’t believe fish live in cans or plastic packets, despite how it’s dressed up. Fresh fish, he’s into it, but there always seems to be a measured reluctance to eat something out of a can.
I think he regards us humans with disdain when our food comes out of a can or packet.
He refuses to eat the leftovers!
Then there’s chicken, or its more expensive neighbor, turkey.
He loves turkey.
I’m sure he’d eat quail and spatchcock too, but no, he’s a cat, and cats have to get used to eating chicken. We’ve had this discussion, one too many times.
And just for good measure, I told him if he thinks he’s coming to Italy with us, he’d better get used to the idea of eating pasta.
Of course, always with the last word, he said, quite nonchalantly, ‘then you’d better call me Garfield’.