Turkey Stupor . . . the Feline Solution

Turkey Feline Solution

Turkey stupor. Turkey daze. Turkey hangover. Call it what you want. It’s the Friday moment you open the fridge door, and the carelessly foil-wrapped carcass bursts forth.

OK, so I was in lard mode last Thursday and didn’t neatly package parts for the three days of the post-Thanksgiving special: turkey-and-cranberry sandwiches, turkey soup, turkey potpie, and the dreaded turkey croquettes. My mother, child of the Great Depression, never wasted an edible speck. She even simmered a liver-gizzard feast for the cats.

I downed a turkey sandwich late Friday morning. Friends invited me over for turkey-bean soup that night.

On Saturday morning, I swung open the fridge door for OJ. The carcass nearly fell out. The family matriarchs were wringing their tea towels in heaven. An odious moment.

Then I caught the solution in the corner of my eye. An unbroken hair trail led from the dining room to the living room and straight to the furball on my vintage Kashan rug.

Side rant: What is it with pesky felines? They shed on every forbidden surface. The minute the wrapping came off my canary-print slipper chair, Kitty-Kitty (she’s a no-name, lovable dingbat) sprawled on it for a week. In fact, she switches sleep sites every seven days. I’ve sprayed foul smelling “cat away” product on her favorite perches. She just yawns and stretches languidly and then pitter-pats to her spot once the fumes clear after 10 minutes.

Eleven-year-old Kitty-Kitty dines on vet-approved dry food for the proactive elderly. No people food—until now.

I snatched off the foil and started hacking. Kitty-Kitty went for it. She tore into the breast meat on Saturday and Sunday. She ground down the turkey legs on Monday morning. Then I threw out the rest. Garbage day.

For once Kitty-Kitty broke her furniture routine and lay belly-full and potato-couched. Finally, she zipped over to her bowl, with dry pellets restored. It was a bad moment—reminiscent of the time green Jell-O appeared on my grandmother’s hospital menu thrice each day.

Like Nannie, Kitty-Kitty went on a hunger strike and yowled complaints to anyone who would listen. The only difference? Already “out to lunch” for five years, the cat rebelled for only an hour, and then she padded off to stare out a window. But ever sharp, Nannie didn’t miss a beat. A grandchild sneaked in some chicken fingers, and they stashed the Jell-O in the fast-food bag.

I vowed to fetch a plastic bag of turkey from the Kroger deli every week. If Kitty-Kitty is on her way out from earthly existence, why be deprived of her final favorite meal?


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