The things I find myself saying to cats! When I make bacon for breakfast, I will often give Tamara's cat Rannie (Random Numbers Wu, a tortoiseshell calico with a lot of Siamese ancestry) a tiny taste of warm bacon grease for a treat. She loves it, and will spend hours grooming afterwards, presumably so she can confound her prey -- whatever she thinks it might be, possibly tiny little pre-smoked hogs that graze on salt, pepper and nitrates -- by smelling all bacon-y.
However, this treat has had the unfortunate effect of convincing the cat that all kitchen activity must produce some kind of tasty grease. Slice of toast, nice fresh fruit, rice and beans, whatever you're making, Rannie is underfoot and complaining, loudly, that she is not receiving her just dues. Tonight's herb salad with baby carrots and a thin-sliced hot dill pickle? That cat thinks she wants some and is offended that I haven't handed it over.
And so there I was, explaining to a royally irked housecat that "salad grease" does not exist. Man, she's going to give me an earful the first time I make a wilted-spinach salad with hot bacon dressing!
Meanwhile Huck, my big striped yellow tom, ignores the proceedings with regal disdain; he's not the least bit interested in any meal he can't either hunt down live on the hoof and/or gobble at breakneck speed.
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