The Russian lover is filleting a 12lb salmon in the other room. He probably should have fed the cats first. They’ve gathered around the kitchen table in reverent awe, but any minute now the scene is going to turn tawdry and pathetic. Like it’s the eighties and a bunch of suits and supermodels are crouched around a coffee table waiting for someone to cut the blow.
Unlike dogs, cats will totally front like they have dignity and self-respect, and they won’t drop the superiority act when making demands, either. It’s like having goth teenagers. They are bored and disinterested and hate you…until they want something. Then they are bored and disinterested and hate you, but willing to stalk you patiently until they get whatever it is they’re after.
The cats don’t really like salmon that much, actually; they more so like to act like they really like salmon. This is because we will occasionally share it, and like any good freeloaders they know that what they want is simply whatever someone else has. Once they’ve established that what we have isn’t all that special, they move on to more aggressive forms of harassment, having determined that we are holding out on them. This is where they go from behaving like relatively harmless goth teenagers to acting like strung-out burglars.
They do eventually give up and slouch back to their corners. The rare exception is when Matilda has ascertained that we are eating bacon. She will ascertain this because I am a guilt-ridden indulgent mother who slips her bacon every chance I get. It turned out that bacon was the secret to socializing Matilda, a shelter cat who wouldn’t let me approach her for almost seven years. When bacon is afoot, Matilda will beg at my heels and crawl into my lap and generally behave like an affectionate whore. No, wait. That’s what I do when the Russian lover makes me bacon.
Anyway. Salmon sashimi awaits me, provided we can prevail against the opportunistic predators eying our plates.