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My cat is very spiteful This is why I have given him the royal-sounding nickname: "Felinus Terriblus".

It appears as though he has specific and unambiguous ideas about the timetable upon which serving him canned tuna is based.

Mostly, he eats a very high-quality brand of dry cat food (which, I might add, costs lots of hard-earned bucks). In fact, one could easily purchase 50 lbs. of cheaper dry cat food in just about any store for virtually the same price as a 3 lb. bag of the brand that he dines on as daily fare. So, it's not as though he was suffering from malnutrition or anything like that.

Much to his constant dismay and chagrin, I don't let him have too much "people tuna" because I feel the cat food that I shell out big bucks for is specifically tailored to provide kitties with every, single nutriment they would ever need in order to maintain a perfectly-balanced and healthy kitty-diet. Therefore, he doesn't get tuna every day.

However, be that as it may, once a month I concede defeat and purchase just seven cans of chunk-light tuna packed in water and, because I don't think it's good for him to have very much of it, I then assiduously and vigilantly dole them out to him - a spoonful at a time - over the course of the subsequent 30 days.

People-tuna to a cat, I feel, is rather like chocolate mousse torte to a human being; it is, in my opinion, a decadent, far too-rich aperitif which should be reserved only for extremely rare and special occasions such as formal state dinners with visiting royalty or titanium wedding anniversaries.

Of course, His Lordship thinks He was born with a "tuna-specific divine right". He becomes highly incensed when a perfectly clear request for tuna has been tendered to the dim-witted, indentured old hag (that would be ME) whose life's mission it is to cater with alacrity to His Lordship's every whim and preference and still no tuna appears forthcoming.

It is usually at this juncture when the true scope of His considerable capacity for spite is laid bare and I become the focal point of His swift and righteous wrath.

I find myself in a constant state of astonishment as I marvel at the immense capacity of the feline species for intricate and complex thought processes - housed, as it were, within a brain roughly the size of a walnut

Knowing full well that, should he focus an attack with claws unfurled upon my carelessly exposed appendages, he could very well find himself executing feats of aerodynamic acrobatics in the upper stratosphere without benefit of an airborne vehicle, he trains a predatory eye upon my unsuspecting handbag sitting on the floor in front of the couch and crouches until he is absolutely sure that I'm looking in that direction.

Then, panther-like, he SPRINGS from the underbrush of the kitchen with a cunning and speed unrivaled by the stealthiest of cheetahs. In a flash he descends upon my purse's shoulder-straps - so stricken with fear that they are frozen where they lie, unable to escape the vicious onslaught of tooth and claw as he rolls over and over, bringing the full lethal pressure of his razor-sharp rear claws to bear.

Then, unsatiated with the sheer gore of his first deadly attack, the felinus terriblis casts its wary gaze about the room - searching for yet more innocent, inanimate blood to spill

Suddenly and without warning his cold, glinting eyes bespy my unwary gardening clogs blissfully reposing beneath a desk chair! Oh, no! They don't see him!

"Look out!" I cry but, alas! I am too late to avert disaster!

Oh, the horror! Oh, the shoe-manity!

Learn more about this author, Jean C. Fisher.
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