Dear Cat

Dear cat,

Why do you eat the plants? You have a bowl of nutritious yummy crunchy food that's always full. It even cleans your teeth as you crunch. You know every morning you are going to get a can of that wet stinky food you crave. So why must you attack my innocent plants?

It doesn't even seem to deter you that I place them in spots out of your reach. Your drive and ingenuity would make one think you are younger than your 17 years. But perhaps with age comes cunning.

So you teeter on stacks of books and leap across chasms to get to the beloved object of your desire, from which you sample a dainty leaf before jumping down with a crash.

Then the fun begins. Don't you remember how much eating plants makes you sick? If I had regurgitation episodes as violent as yours, every single time, I think I would give up on the endeavor.

Or perhaps the gut-twisting is part of the whole enterprise. Your timing is impeccable. Usually your tummy has it's little upset about 5:40 am, when we humans are in the deepest point of our sleep. And yet the sound is so loud and horrible that you manage to wake us up.

Perhaps, like me, you enjoy the game we humans play. The one where I pretend to be asleep while my husband, trying in vain to ignore the episode, finally gets out of bed because he has to use the bathroom so badly. Then he does the entertaining "try to step over it, wherever it is" dance. It's like watching the kids play the hot lava game.

This morning you outdid yourself, however. It was the most loudly musical of all retches. I pictured a gallon of regurgitated horror on the needlepoint carpet. I played dead for all I was worth. My husband did the dance, turned on the lights and. . .nothing. No evidence of upchuck whatsoever.

Brilliant kitty. I know you're just playing with us, but I have to admire the level of expertise. You are an artist at your craft.