REMEMBERING WHEN: The little food critic

By Keith Schell

Growing up, we had a food critic living in our house whose discriminating palate could rival the most powerful critic at The New York Times. She insisted on the best and would never settle for anything less, constantly rejecting anything that didn’t meet her rigid standards for taste and quality.

And that food critic was… our family cat!

As any cat owner knows, one of the true “joys” of owning a cat is trying to feed it. We had that joyful experience many times over the years.

Contrary to what our cat might have believed, we always made sure she was well-fed and well looked after. Food-wise, we never cheaped out. We bought what we thought was good, nutritious food—the best the grocery store had to offer. Or at the very least, the best cat food we could afford without being ridiculous about it.

The trouble was, we had the greatest feline food snob in the entire world.

In buying the best we could afford, how many times did someone open a tin for her, sniff it before serving, and say to anyone who was listening, “Hey, this stuff smells pretty good! I could probably eat it myself.” We figured she’d love it too, since it smelled pretty good to us. Then we’d put the food down on the floor for our fuzzy little food critic. She would walk over to the saucer, give it a sniff—and walk away, unimpressed.

(Of course, this was the same cat who, after refusing a gourmet meal of the best food available, would go outside, catch a mouse, and try to eat that instead! I know—it’s just a cat being a cat, but I never truly understood that one.)

Every time she turned up her nose at a meal, a legendary battle of wills would begin. We’d say to her, “Won’t eat it, eh? Well, you won’t get anything else until you do!” Sometimes the cat would eventually cave and lower herself to eat what we gave her. Other times, we’d have to wrap it up and put it in the fridge so it wouldn’t spoil—only to try sneaking it past her again later.

When it came to opening tins of food, our cat insisted on being kept in the loop. Along with her discriminating palate, she had a discriminating ear as well. Amid the cacophony of household sounds, no matter where she was in the house, the moment she heard the can opener, she would briskly trot into the kitchen—laser-focused on what was being opened—to determine whether or not it was something she liked.

Because she wouldn’t leave you alone until she knew what you had in the can, eventually I got into the habit of holding the opened can down for her to sniff. And usually, once she realized it was something she wasn’t interested in—like corn or some other kind of vegetable—she’d let out a deep sigh and walk away, disappointed. Better luck next time!

Our cat was hardly deprived. On big family dinner nights with roast beef, ham, or turkey, she’d come to the table to check out the food situation. And because she was part of the family, Dad would have one of us kids give her a small piece of meat. We’d break up a little bit on a saucer and put it on the floor for her.

After eating her fill, she’d retire to the living room, hop up onto the top of our floor console TV set, and sit there licking her chops for five minutes—happy as a clam.

Did we spoil our cat? Maybe a little. But hey, she was part of the family too.

And I smile when I think about the memories.