Fat Cat

Even on his diet, GT was piling on the pounds!

- Celia Kay Andrew

THAT cat is getting fat,” Mrs Jones from Number 30 said. “You should not be feeding it between meals.”

“I don’t!” I protested, looking down at GT – Ginger Tom – who was winding himself round my ankles and purring so hard I could feel the vibration through my trousers.

I had to admit he did look a little porky these days.

“He gets just what you told me to give him, and no more,” I told her.

I reached down and stroked the orange back and it arched up against my hand.

“Well, you’ll have to cut it down. I do hate to see cats get fat.”

Mrs Jones was the local Cat Rescue Co-ordinator, and Number 30, Tudor Street had several custom built sheds given over to needy felines who were awaiting rehoming.

Half the households in our street had a cat, many of whom had, at one time, been resident at Number 30. GT himself had been there until four months ago and Mrs Jones still liked to keep an eye on her fostered family.

“I’ll give him a bit less for a few weeks,” I said.

I picked GT up and settled him in his favourite position over my shoulder.

He did feel heavier than he used to, it was true. If he had been a girl cat, I might have suspected pregnancy, but he wasn’t. He was a neutered boy.

“Maybe it’s because he’s no longer a proper tom cat?” I mused.

“Rubbish. He’s simply getting too much to eat.”

Mrs Jones nodded to me and went briskly on her way, leaving me to take the parish magazine she had brought, and my furry fashion accessory, back into the house.

So I put him on a diet. I measured his feed – two small bowls a day – and I bought a fishing-line toy that the pet shop recommended.