Fear and Loathing

So. I have the greatest cat in the world. A mackerel tabby. Christened Margie, because he walked like Marge Gunderson in Fargo, and because he was tiny when I got him and I thought he was a girl; re-named Macheath, a/k/a Mack the Knife, from the Gay/Weill/Brecht Beggar's Opera/Threepenny Opera melange, because in his toddlerhood he discovered he had claws and was all about using them. He's almost ten years old, but to my (almost-) constant joy and delight, he often acts like he'a a spry lad of four, and sometimes, if a piece of paper or a shoelace gets in his eyeline, he acts like he's a kitten again.

But he's not. Last time he was weighed, a year or so ago, he was about 16 pounds. He's only slightly fat, especially considering he's almost ten, with a small fat pad, but he's long, and large, with enormous paws (so said the guy at the vet who was waiting with his kitten) and a big bull head (so say I, And I constantly remind him. "Look at your big head. Look at your big bull head."). My ex-next-door neighboor called him a "puma" once. (I guess she thought he was sleek.) He's just a big animal, as far as housecats go. A big tom. Like me.

I say this because he seems, in spite of being an in-cat who never goes outside except to walk on the window ledge, and a bit of a chicken, to be as strong and as durable as a frigging horse. Which is how I describe him to most people who inquire after him. "Oh he's awesome. He's a frigging horse." He's had pink eye, and a gland problem when he was very young, and your hairball fits and one cut footpad, but in the city, keeping cats inside definitely has its advantages. He's normally extremely healthy and fit. Seemingly indestructible.

So, guess who may have eaten tainted cat food over the past couple of weeks?

The numbers don't QUITE match up (here a date right, there a UPC number right, never both) but it's disconcerting as hell, and when I went to the Dominick's to get more and not-going-to-kill-the-best-part-of-my-everyday-existence cat food, the stuff I normally buy had been pulled.

Fuck.

And, it turns out, the makers of the stuff may have known all along there was a defect in the gluten.

So.

All I'm saying is, if Mackie dies because of this shit, don't be surprised if you read a headline from Canada like "Fat Guy Goes Nutzoid in Pet Food Factory, Slays 100." All I'm saying.