Puddin’ the Cat Says, “I’m Never Visiting the Vet Again!” | Eastern North Carolina Now

I mean it, I tell you. I can deal with being poked and prodded and getting a shot or two, but that’s my limit.

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Publisher's Note: Kathy Manos Penn is a native of the “Big Apple,” who settled in the “Peach City” – Atlanta. A former English teacher now happily retired from a corporate career in communications, she writes a weekly column for the Dunwoody Crier and the Highlands Newspaper. Read her blogs and columns and purchase her books, “The Ink Penn: Celebrating the Magic in the Everyday” and “Lord Banjo the Royal Pooch,” on her website theinkpenn.com or Amazon.

Kathy Manos Penn with Lord Banjo
    I mean it, I tell you. I can deal with being poked and prodded and getting a shot or two, but that's my limit. This year, I saw a new vet because my regular gal is on maternity leave. The new vet — who does she think she is — says I'm too heavy. Me? Too heavy? What does she know?

    Only last year, my regular vet said my weight was perfect. Well, maybe not perfect, but acceptable. There may have been some mention of not gaining any weight. Mum says she's never had a cat who weighs as much as I do, but I know lots of kitties weigh more than me.

    All you have to do is watch those cat videos on YouTube, and you know that my weight is fine. But noooo. The new vet says I weigh twelve pounds, and that's too much. Too much?

    Now, when I jump on Mum's desk, which I do over and over again, all day every day, she tries to limit my treats to only one or two. I think I need to start nudging her hand as she tilts the treat container so a few more fall out. Need I remind you that I am "leaping" on the desk? If I were overweight, would I be able to do that? I don't huff and puff; I leap, gracefully, and I never miss.

    I still dash up and down the stairs too, especially when I hear the top coming off the milk jug or my can of cat food coming out of the pantry. Not only do I have boundless energy, but I also have amazing hearing.

    Banjo, my canine brother, complains about being called old, but he gets to eat all he wants. Half the time, he finishes my dabs wet food, so how much can I really be consuming?

    There's even talk of no longer feeding me canned food. Does Mum honestly think I can survive on dry niblets alone? I know I've mentioned in a previous column that she claims the virus shrunk her clothes. Do you think I should suffer because she has a weight problem? I don't think so.

    I think it's a conspiracy-pet parents against we perfect four-legged creatures. More likely, they're just plain jealous. I mean most of us house kitties lead pretty cushy lives. And now that our pet parents are home all the time, it's dawned on them just how much they do for us. Yes, as I lie here stretched out on Mum's desk, thinking deep thoughts, I know I'm right. Jealousy is the root of all evil.

    I can see that solving this problem will require extreme focus. And I cannot think on dry food alone. I need treats, I tell you — more treats.

    PS. After listening to my objections, Mum called the vet to see what I weighed last year. Guess what? I haven't gained a single ounce — I weighed twelve pounds last year too. Let the treats resume!

    Princess Puddin' Penn resides in Georgia with her dad, her mom Kathy Manos Penn, and her canine brother Lord Banjo. Please send comments, compliments, and questions to inkpenn119@gmail.com. Her mom's cozy mysteries are available on Amazon!
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