The Last Waft (1987)

That Cat Food Smell:

I wonder why it is that you can dab perfume liberally over the various pulse points on your body and be unable to detect even a trace of the scent within a few minutes, but accidentally get one drop of cat food juice on your fingers and the smell is still gaggingly present hours later, no matter how many times you wash your hands. Eau de toilette is fleeting. Eau de Nine Lives is forever.

When I feed the cat I try awfully hard not to get any on myself, but it seems the harder I try, the clumsier I get. If I attempt to daintily flip the lid off the can and into the trash without touching it, it will as often as not rebound and skid, sloppy side down, across my knuckles. Bang the spoon on the edge of the cat bowl to dislodge some stuck food and I’ll lay you odds that at least part of it will end up on my hand. I have a real knack for it.

Tinkerbelle (don’t blame me, I’m not the one who named her) has her own bowls, can opener, plastic lids, and spoons and they are kept in a separate drawer. I never made an issue of the fact that I was squeamish about pet food because it seemed a little irrational, but I’d quietly cringe with a little frisson of distaste if I became tainted.

The Waft:

Then came the day when my son decided to be playful.  I had the day off and was still in my pajamas, curled up in my favorite chair, a mug of tea at my elbow and a trashy romance novel on my lap, determined to to veg out. Tom was getting ready to feed Tinkerbelle her breakfast and he selected a new flavor that we were trying for the first time. He opened the can and sniffed the contents.

“Come smell this,” he invited.
“That’s okay,” I said, “I’ll take your word for it.”
“No, really. It doesn’t even smell like cat food.”

I was determined to stay where I was. Tom was equally determined that I should have a sniff. He came striding into the living room, cat bowl in hand. Suppressing a little shiver of revulsion, I explained that I find the smell of cat food revolting and to take himself and the offending bowl out of my sight.

“Here, I’ll just waft the aroma over to you,” he said, holding the dish and one hand and fanning the other hand over the bowl in my direction, enormously pleased with himself.  The more I protested, the faster he wafted, both of us laughing until one too vigorous waft caught the rim of the bowl and sent it flying in my direction. The kid is an athlete and his reflexes are superb. He reached out and caught the bowl in mid flight.  Unfortunately, the cat food within had gained momentum of its own and continued on its way, showering down all over me.

I sat there stunned as Tom, red-faced with embarrassment but laughing so hard he could hardly catch his breath, whisked bits of sloppy damp cat food off my flannelette jammies and back into the dish, apologizing profusely the whole time. Speechless, I could only manage a strangled “Aargh!” every few seconds until he declared me cleaned up and wondered what all the fuss about. When I peeled back the eyelet ruffle around my neck to reveal the flecks of liver that still clung to my skin he lost control again.

The classified ad reads: “Free to good home: teenage boy with teenage cat. Housebroken, good with children. Fond of Nine Lives. Just waft your replies to this newspaper.”