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Would you rather eat a can of Dreck, or a can of Seared Tuna Provençal? To ask the question is to answer it. But what if you were a cat? One out of one cats surveyed would choose the latter one hundred per cent of the time -- at least for a fleeting moment. Cats, it has been shown, are as captive to the suggestive power of trademarks as is anyone else. And just like everyone else, cats are well aware that labeling for their particular market is, for all intents and purposes, a charade.
Cats know full well, for example, that virtually all of the cat food in the world is processed in a single factory located on the outskirts of Utica, New York, and consisting, principally, of a gargantuan vat where everything gets smushed into a huge mish mash, and then parceled out to separate containers onto which are pasted labels with names calculated to cloud the consumer with the illusion that their pet is a wit and raconteur, and not just a staging ground for ticks. Cats know this. They do. But they don't want to hear it.
There is, for the cat, a certain kind of pleasure to be derived from taking just two bites of the Braised Beef Florentine in Gravy before turning up their nose and demanding something else, such as the Wild Salmon Supreme or the Tuscan Chicken Rustico with Mountain Truffles. It's one thing to leave chazzerai from the Cheapo-Mart in one's bowl untouched; it's quite another to lacerate the waiter for having the temerity to serve the Crevette Trois Voies twice in a single week. In the end, of course, the name of the dish matters not a whit; your cat is not going to eat it.
And why not? Because the point of the exercise -- for the cat -- is not to receive sustenance, but, rather, to force you to take out a second mortgage in order to afford the privilege of disappointing him, repeatedly, at dinnertime. Without a doubt, the exotic appellation on the lid will get a rise out of Mr. Fancy Pants Kitty, but only for a nanosecond or so.
Let's face it; if you are a cat, and the overwhelming portion of your waking hours are spent, not actually awake doing something productive like earning a million dollars a year for your guardian by starring in television commercials, but, in fact, sleeping and trailing allergens all over the couch, then playing a daily round of "You have got to be kidding!" with your owner is the apex of jocularity.
But don't worry. Your cat is not going to starve.
This is why there are chipmunks.
And doorsteps.
Cats know full well, for example, that virtually all of the cat food in the world is processed in a single factory located on the outskirts of Utica, New York, and consisting, principally, of a gargantuan vat where everything gets smushed into a huge mish mash, and then parceled out to separate containers onto which are pasted labels with names calculated to cloud the consumer with the illusion that their pet is a wit and raconteur, and not just a staging ground for ticks. Cats know this. They do. But they don't want to hear it.
There is, for the cat, a certain kind of pleasure to be derived from taking just two bites of the Braised Beef Florentine in Gravy before turning up their nose and demanding something else, such as the Wild Salmon Supreme or the Tuscan Chicken Rustico with Mountain Truffles. It's one thing to leave chazzerai from the Cheapo-Mart in one's bowl untouched; it's quite another to lacerate the waiter for having the temerity to serve the Crevette Trois Voies twice in a single week. In the end, of course, the name of the dish matters not a whit; your cat is not going to eat it.
And why not? Because the point of the exercise -- for the cat -- is not to receive sustenance, but, rather, to force you to take out a second mortgage in order to afford the privilege of disappointing him, repeatedly, at dinnertime. Without a doubt, the exotic appellation on the lid will get a rise out of Mr. Fancy Pants Kitty, but only for a nanosecond or so.
Let's face it; if you are a cat, and the overwhelming portion of your waking hours are spent, not actually awake doing something productive like earning a million dollars a year for your guardian by starring in television commercials, but, in fact, sleeping and trailing allergens all over the couch, then playing a daily round of "You have got to be kidding!" with your owner is the apex of jocularity.
But don't worry. Your cat is not going to starve.
This is why there are chipmunks.
And doorsteps.
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