Why Clumsy Cat Owners Shouldn't Buy 17.6-Pound Bags of Food
Captain's log. 1:30 a.m.
Goofy (the cat with the bladder crystals) is running low on food. Good thing I ordered more online. The special kind for urinary health that costs $60.
Hmm, 17.6 pounds of food is heavier than I thought. I'll pour some into a smaller container so it will be easier to manage on a daily basis.
What do I do with the rest of the bag? If I leave it on the floor, Jack (the cat with the seizures and demonic food lust) will rip it open and eat until he can't feel feelings anymore.
Okay, there's a small space on a shelf in the entryway closet. The bag is too tall, but I'll zip it closed and see if I can shove it in sideways.
Shit, it's stuck on something else on the shelf. While holding the 17-pound bag with one hand, I'll haphazardly shove the other thing out of the way. Wouldn't want to start over.
"Guess that bag wasn't as zipped as I thought," I thought as a half a pound of the expensive special food rains down into my shirt, the shoes in the closet, the floor, the Amazon Prime bag, and the dusty hairy floor mat we've never vacuumed.
Look who's here! It's High Maintenance Food Cat and Food Demon Cat. Looks like they heard the manna pouring from heaven.
I empty the heaping handful of cat food that's collected in the space between my boobs back into the bag and heave the cats into other rooms and close the doors.
Time to see how much of this food that costs $3.40 a pound I can salvage and shove back into the back. Let's see if I can do this the smart way. I'll sweep the food kibbles closer together so I can grab a handful at a time.
"Well, looks like we haven't vacuumed the entryway in awhile either," I thought, staring at the pile of food, dust, and compilation of hair from two furry cats and two hairy humans.
Time to pick up the pieces one by one on the cleanest parts of the floor. Abandoning the kibbles on the horrifyingly dirty floor mat, I pick up individual pieces of food, inspect them for an unacceptable level of dirt, and throw them into the bag. I empty at least 4 shoes full of cat food into the bag. Except the shoes I haven't worn in two years that have at least as much dust as the floor.
Once I give up, I vacuum the rest of the kibbles and survey the destruction I've wrought. Because I'm sure as hell not putting away the shoes, vacuum cleaner, and emptied-out contents of the Amazon Prime bag away at this point. I make SURE the bag is zipped properly this time and place it on a much more manageable surface with definitely has enough space.
Meanwhile, the boyfriend has slept through this entire ordeal and will be learning about it tomorrow morning before I wake up by reading this post. It's a toss-up as to whether he'll read this first or see the strange scene in the entryway, but thanks for your support, baby.
Lessons learned:
Goofy (the cat with the bladder crystals) is running low on food. Good thing I ordered more online. The special kind for urinary health that costs $60.
Hmm, 17.6 pounds of food is heavier than I thought. I'll pour some into a smaller container so it will be easier to manage on a daily basis.
What do I do with the rest of the bag? If I leave it on the floor, Jack (the cat with the seizures and demonic food lust) will rip it open and eat until he can't feel feelings anymore.
Okay, there's a small space on a shelf in the entryway closet. The bag is too tall, but I'll zip it closed and see if I can shove it in sideways.
Shit, it's stuck on something else on the shelf. While holding the 17-pound bag with one hand, I'll haphazardly shove the other thing out of the way. Wouldn't want to start over.
"Guess that bag wasn't as zipped as I thought," I thought as a half a pound of the expensive special food rains down into my shirt, the shoes in the closet, the floor, the Amazon Prime bag, and the dusty hairy floor mat we've never vacuumed.
Look who's here! It's High Maintenance Food Cat and Food Demon Cat. Looks like they heard the manna pouring from heaven.
I empty the heaping handful of cat food that's collected in the space between my boobs back into the bag and heave the cats into other rooms and close the doors.
Time to see how much of this food that costs $3.40 a pound I can salvage and shove back into the back. Let's see if I can do this the smart way. I'll sweep the food kibbles closer together so I can grab a handful at a time.
"Well, looks like we haven't vacuumed the entryway in awhile either," I thought, staring at the pile of food, dust, and compilation of hair from two furry cats and two hairy humans.
Time to pick up the pieces one by one on the cleanest parts of the floor. Abandoning the kibbles on the horrifyingly dirty floor mat, I pick up individual pieces of food, inspect them for an unacceptable level of dirt, and throw them into the bag. I empty at least 4 shoes full of cat food into the bag. Except the shoes I haven't worn in two years that have at least as much dust as the floor.
Once I give up, I vacuum the rest of the kibbles and survey the destruction I've wrought. Because I'm sure as hell not putting away the shoes, vacuum cleaner, and emptied-out contents of the Amazon Prime bag away at this point. I make SURE the bag is zipped properly this time and place it on a much more manageable surface with definitely has enough space.
Meanwhile, the boyfriend has slept through this entire ordeal and will be learning about it tomorrow morning before I wake up by reading this post. It's a toss-up as to whether he'll read this first or see the strange scene in the entryway, but thanks for your support, baby.
Lessons learned:
- Don't buy the 17.6-pound bag of cat food. Just buy a few of the smaller bags. It's not worth the minor savings.
- Vacuum the entryway more often.
- Don't have pets.
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