"Thumper" Is Latin For "Kitty-Whipped..."

Buddah is not an especially vocal kitty. He reserves speaking to me for those times when he wants or needs something; most often he speaks up when he deeply needs to have a toy mousie tossed down the hall or the stairs so that he can run after it, pick it up, and bring it back so that we can do the whole thing all over again. His fascination with the game of Go Fetch makes us wonder sometimes if he's not Hank the Dog reincarnated.

Hank could never understand the intricasies of fetching; if you threw a ball or a stick, he would run after it, and then sit there, his head tilted, tongue hanging out as he dripped saliva onto the grass. Hank the Dog was more like Hank the Cat; he napped ferociously, lived for food, and if he hadn't weighed 100 pounds he would have spent every available moment in someone's lap.

I think Hank had a species identity problem; if he could have been surgically altered into being a cat, I think he would have happily gone under the knife.

So maybe he wanted a do-over, and came back as Buddah.

Only Buddah seems to be a dog wrapped in cat fur.

Poor thing can't win either way.

Still...Buddah does not talk to me the way Max does; Max carries on long conversations, which are usually complaints about the lack of food on demand, and why am I not providing a lap right this second when he wants one. Buddah is usually off in his own little world; it's a nice place and he's happy there, but it makes him a quiet kitty for the most part.

This morning when I headed into the kitchen to feed them both, Buddah thundered down the stairs, sounding more like 100 pound Hank than 13 pound Buddah. He jumped onto the counter--yes, I feed him up there, just to keep the cats separated--and he butted my hand with his head, impatient for me to open that can of wonderful Stinky Goodness. His tail twittered and he pranced until I plopped all 3 ounces of something that looked as if it had been eaten and regurigtated two or three times already onto his plate.

It was fishy; he loves fishy.

I gave Max his food on the floor (ok, on a plate on the floor, just so you know I'm not that horrible...) and he dove in with as much gusto as Buddah had just seconds before. The kitchen was filled with the sounds of "mmpf, slurp, gobble, snork" and I turned away to get my own breakfast.

The sounds of Stinky Goodness being devoured suddenly cut in half, and I turned around just in time to grab Buddah from jumping down right on top of Max.

I put him back on the coutner and told him in no uncertain terms "This is your food. Let Max eat his own."

Buddah peered over the counter at Max's different-brand-because-he's fat-fishy bounty.

"No," I said to him, "you either eat what I gave you, or you don't eat. I'm not kidding, It's this or nothing."

Max looked up at me like Oh cripes...put him down here and I'll share. Just give me a couple bites of his stuff.

Let Buddah jump down, and he had perhaps two bites of Max's food. He wandered off, seemingly happy, to my admonition that I was throwing the food away. No more until tonight.

Two hours later I was sitting at me desk and felt a thin kitty body rubbing against my leg. I looked down, expecting there to be a tiny gray toy mouse for me to throw, but instead Buddah was alone, and he looked up and let out a tiny Meow, meow.

"I know you're hungry. You should have eaten earlier."

"Meow meow meow." I'm really hungry.

"Didn't I say no more until dinner?"

"Meow? Meow meow meow meow meow..." Please? I'm just a tiny boy...

"It's not fair to Max...if he hears me put out crunchy food he'll want some."

"Meow meow meow. Meow?" Max won't mind. Please?

Oh come on. You know I fed him...

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