I don’t eat cat kibbles.
I would have thought the ladies at Gloriosa’s pool party last week didn’t eat cat kibbles either. It goes to show…
I got to explain.
My sister-in-law got a gorgeous new backyard pool during the pandemic, and now she is socializing up a storm. Every week there’s another bunch of people lounging by the pool, taking Facebook pictures of their bare toes with the water shimmering in the background.
Last week she entertained the Prima Mamas. This is an important party. The Prima Mamas’ kids all go to this fancy pre-school called Prima NOLA, where Gloriosa wants to send her littlest daughter, Flambeau. She is hoping they can use their influence to get her in.
Gloriosa’s two older kids are at day camp this morning, and Flambeau is tearing around at her Grandma Larda’s house, doing God knows what. (Gloriosa is going to owe Ms. Larda big time.)
But Moppet, the dog, and Minny, the cat are here: Moppet scoring snacks by being cute; Minny stalking around like she suspects the guests might mess in her litter box.
Gladiola even got a caterer. Unfortunately, she specified healthy snacks, which turns out to be mostly boiled eggs and oatmeal clumps. The caterers set up serving tables outside and arranged the food, such as it is, in real pretty red-white-and-blue dishes. Then they left.
I am making Bloody Marys from a mix – I done this before; you just have to add vodka – and I am being very generous with the vodka, to make up for the oatmeal clumps. Gloriosa is concentrating on being charming.
And then things get weird.
Now, Gloriosa always keeps Minny’s kibble bowl all by itself on a little accent table just tall enough so Minny can hop up and eat, and Moppet can’t get to it.
But when the caterers were setting up, they moved this table near the serving table. And Minny’s bowl is also red-white-and blue, like the dishes the caterers brought.
You see where this is going? Melba Marose, jabbering away, reaches into Minny’s bowl and scoops a handful of kibbles into her mouth.
What can I do? I can’t yell, “Melba, you idiot!” That don’t seem gracious.
And while I am still watching, with my eyes bugging out, Judi (with-an-“i”) Howell daintily picks up a kibble and starts to chew.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Minny, looking as astounded as a cat can look, run for her bowl. I snatch her up and whisk her into the house.
When I come back, a bunch of ladies are clustered around that bowl, drinking my Bloody Marys and scoffing up kibble. Gladys Colgin, who has a voice like a bullhorn, points to the bowl and says “Modine? Could we have a refill?”
“Of course!” I chirp; carry the bowl inside; instantly pull out my phone, and tap “Cat kibble poisonous to humans?” into Google.
“It’s OK to satisfy the occasional craving, but you shouldn’t make it a staple of your regular diet,” says Google. Those are its EXACT WORDS.
I don’t want to think about it.
I look for something else to put in this bowl, once I wash out the cat spit.
Gloriosa is so healthy, all I can find is kale chips. I dump that in and douse it with Tabasco. When I go back outside, Minny zips between my feet and escapes.
I set the bowl on Minny’s table and the Prima Mamas pounce on it.
Minny puts a stop to this new foolishness. She hops up on the table, flicks her paw, and pushes that bowl off the edge. CRASH! And that’s that.
Finally, this party is over. Gloriosa and me sit down, and she pours us each a glass of that Bloody Mary mix. I reach for the vodka, but Gloriosa holds up her hand. “This kind of mix already includes the vodka,” she says.
Oh.
This means the Prima Mammas drank a LOT of vodka. No wonder they were eating cat food.
I guess they liked it. Flambeau got accepted into Prima NOLA.
We can thank Minny for that.
