Clever Magazine, Winter '08-09 " Catkins Diet " (www.clevermag.com)

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The Catkins Diet

by Margrita Jager

Margrita is a full-time mom and freelance writer living and working in Stow, Ohio. A graduate of Hiram College, she worked in advertising for several years before leaving the corporate world to launch an independent writing and design company with another full-time mom. Visit their Web site at www.freshpaint-marketing.com.

Our family cat weighs as much as your average American Thanksgiving turkey, give or take a wing or two. To me, she’s gorgeous—with luminous green eyes outlined with Cleopatra-like precision and a pristine-white mountain of a belly that she displays shamelessly to the world while relaxing on her back. Unfortunately, our veterinarian sees things a little differently.

So, to help her shed a pound or two, I decided to take his advice and replace her carb-laden diet with a higher protein regimen—a strategy that sounded achingly familiar to my diet-weary spirit. Hadn’t I tried something like that myself a few years back? Had it been the panacea that was promised? Not that I could recall. But I shrugged off my reservations and launched Chelsea into “The Catkins Diet.” It was an instant hit. She pounced on each new flavor, even begging for seconds. And maybe it was wishful thinking, but as the days passed, she seemed to be slimming down ever-so-slowly and her energy seemed to be increasing ever-so-slightly. Finally, a diet that really delivered!

And then the tides began to shift. I should have picked up on the not-so-subtle signs. The whining, the pleading, the cries of desperation. Was it the full moon? No, it was something even more powerful than planetary alignment. She’d hit the wall—the same one I’d hit countless times on innumerable diets since the age of twelve. The original enthusiasm and inner sense of resolve that coasts even the most defiant dieter through the first 20 pounds suddenly dangles ominously from your grasp like the frantic cat clinging to a tree branch in that old “Hang in There Baby” poster. Sometimes it’s a slow descent, a tiny nibble here and another there, and sometimes it’s a full-blown freefall into a mound of homemade mashed potatoes. You look around in horror as you become possessed by an unseen force and you fear your head will start spinning around like that girl in The Exorcist, mashed potatoes flinging wildly from your mouth.

At first, Chelsea simply turned her nose up at each dish, arguing her case by meowing eloquently and gently batting the bowl out of sight. All these fabulous flavors that once made her salivate with delight—Upstream Dream, Chick-a-doodle-do, Hook, Line and Sinker—had lost their lure. A five-star feline feast, yet she resolutely rejected them all.

Finally, in my frustration over repeatedly tossing “perfectly good food” down the disposal, I unleashed an ultimatum. “That’s it, Chelsea,” I said. “There are kitties starving in this world. You either eat or go hungry.” After all, who was in control here? To my surprise, she obediently ate every last morsel. “Yes! A new member of the clean plate club!”, I cheered, triumphant in my stand against picky eaters everywhere and feeling a bit smug as I savored the sweet taste of success.

Then I heard it. The ghastly gurgling. The unmistakable sound of partially-digested food making a quick and powerful re-entry into the world. I stared in disbelief at the steaming pile on the corner of my brand new wool rug. The peaceful protest was over—she ’d dropped the bomb. She’d had enough of the diet, enough of my ignoring her pleas, enough of being treated like a science experiment.

And I realized that I’d finally had enough, too. In a classic light-bulb moment, I was overcome with empathy for my frustrated furry friend. The all-you-can-eat steak diet sounds like heaven until you’ve been through day after day of the same thing for breakfast, lunch and dinner. You’d sell your soul for a bowl of corn flakes—or a cup full of kitty crunchies. In a moment of silent surrender to the “battle of the bulge”, I flooded her bowl with kitty treats, grabbed a carton of coffee-toffee ice cream—and we both indulged in the spoils of victory.

They say the teacher comes when the student is ready, often appearing when you least expect them—and sometimes even wearing fur.