My nemesis isn't a supervillain, a neighbor I have to "keep up with", another runner, or a coworker gunning for the same promotions. He's a cuddly eight-pound brown tabby named Higgy the Cat. (Actually, his name is Higgenbaffum, but that's another story.)
(Photo by Christina Stetler Photography)
Higgy's a nice cat, a friendly, affectionate 13-year old who still in many ways acts like a kitten. He's a genius at getting into things, is very athletic for his age (There's no such thing as "cat years", but a chart at the vet's office says that 13 for a cat is the equivalent of the early 70s for a human), and loves to play and start fights with his brother Pooka and his adopted little sister Elizabeth, who is often terrified of him.
The problem is that Higgy
I'm happy to report that Higgy is on thyroid medication and is responding very well. But his medication has made him very finicky, and the only cat food he likes is Elizabeth's, which consists of huge, crunchy kibbles that take Higgy forever to eat. Thus, it's hard for him to eat enough to maintain even his reduced weight. To correct this, our vet recommended that we give him baby food and that occasional table scraps are ok, as long as they don't have chocolate, since caffeine is deadly to cats.
So, Higgy gets cake. And cheese. And crackers. And once you give him a crumb, begging turns into all-out frontal assault. But when I made a spinach salad for lunch, I did not expect it to be attacked by the tabby. Since when have cats liked spinach salad? Since when have I liked spinach salad?
I fought him off this time. I won the battle, but the war's outcome is still very much in doubt.
Oh yeah, running. I ran 10 miles this morning 1:34:20. Awesome. I'll probably go for a shorter run tomorrow, 8-10 on Friday, and probably take the weekend off.