mmmmm carbs, oooohhhhhhhh

When I first moved into my new house, I was introduced to something called "weight management" food. I gathered that one of my new roommates had packed on the pounds in his earlier years, so now everyone was eating this stuff.

This is quality food, don't worry. They use good ingredients, for the most part. But they also use corn, wheat, soy, and rice. Have you ever seen a cat eat corn? Ever wondered if he should make the switch to whole grain? Would you offer a cat tofu?

Let's be honest, here. I have sharp little teeth designed to rend flesh from bone. Open a cow's mouth or, heck, open your own. See those big, flat molars? Those are designed for grinding grain. Now look in my mouth (ok, that's not my mouth). Pointy, vicious little renders!

I need meat. Meat, meat, meat. And sometimes grass. But mostly meat. And bone. And fat. I don't need chips, bread, or pasta.

But I do love them so. That's my problem. I love carbs. Jess has this big tub of food she gives to the stray cats outside. It looks like kids cereal! Everytime she opens it, I can smell all the corn. I stare at the tub, hoping a nugget or two will bounce to the floor. Oh, sweet temptation!

Everyone in the house now eats a high protein dry food that contains no grain at all. It's good and crunchy, but not nearly as satisfying. I like it and I ask for it as much as possible (I don't always get it, but I ask).

Fat. Healthy, but Fat

I'm huffing my way up the stairs to the litterbox. I have to stop half way and rest. Then I have to stop at the top of the stair and rest. Then I have to rest at the litterbox. This is a dream? Right?

Nope. I thought there had to be something wrong with me (besides my prodigious belly) so I had them take me to the Vet. I admit it, I hate getting in the carrier. It scares the shit out of me. I'm sure I'll never get out or, when I do, I won't know where I am and they'll leave me again. I know, I know. I'm safe and the girls have promised never to leave me. I still squawk in the carrier.

Jess complained the whole time about carrying me in the carrier. "Geez, Mosby! I hope I can make it to the car!" ha ha. I'm not self-conscious enough yet.

The trip was mercifully short but as soon as the carrier was open, I was in a weird place with people poking me. Without so much as dinner first! Everyone kept popping in to stare at me. Truthfully, I was so freaked out about being at the Vet, that the attention was the least of it. It bothered Marlene a lot, though.

The Vet prodded, massaged, felt, and listened. She drew blood (three tries, thank you. I've got three bald spots now!). I tried to maintain some dignity in all of this: I refused to give them a urine sample. Ha! Of course, two days later I found Jess holding a little dustpan under my ass while I peed in the box. At least I made her work for it.

But guess what kids: I'm fine. My thyroid levels aren't low. My red and white cells are fine. There was no sugar in my urine. I'm fat. But I'm not sick.

Now I'm on Atkins. I kid you not.

Hi, my name is Mosby, and I'm a carb addict.

My name is Mosby. I'm 8 years old and I've always been a big guy. Even when I was young and fit I was tall and hefty. I didn't have to work at it, I just played with my brother and did the stuff you do when you're young. And I ate whatever they put in front of me!

I was comfortable and happy in my home, even when they had me and my brother declawed (I'll get to that in another post). Then, seven years into what I thought was a great relationship, my world turned upside down.

My people, the ones who raised us and loved us, abandoned us. We found ourselves homeless and living in rescue (better than the shelter, yes, but still not home). By then, I was up to 18 pounds. I was hefty, but I could still play and get around easily. But this, this upheaval, left me shattered. Like many of you, I turned to food.

Food made me happy. Food made me feel better. Food didn't go away. So I ate.

We went into a foster home with loving people and interesting roommates. There was always food there, too. This time it was "weight management" food. Great! I thought. It's light! I can eat as much as I want! So I ate. A lot.

Before my foster family knew it, I'd packed on nine pounds! They moved the wonderful food so I had to climb to get it. I climbed. I ate. I ate a lot more.

The nice foster people adopted me and my brother after a year. They're wonderful, kind, gentle, and really care about us. They're very worried about me. I don't move around well. I breathe heavy. I'm constipated. They tried other foods, but what I really want is kibble. They're nice, they give me a few pieces with every bowl of moist food. But my wonderful food, my constant companion, is out of reach.

I'm on a diet, kids. I'm not happy about it. But I really have no say. We went to the doctor, ran all kinds of tests. More on that in the next post.