It takes a bit of effort to commit one's self to a diet.  I do well when my meals are planned out.  I know just what to eat and when.  The trouble is, I don't stop eating when I should.

 

So I asked my husband to serve me dinner.  I thought, if I didn't serve myself, I couldn't overeat.  I was also thinking of my cats, who vary in weight.  We set out one dish of food and they converge on it.  After so many minutes, we nudge the fatties aside and let the skinnies keep on eating.  I naively thought that this same type of principle, when applied to me, would work.  If my husband served my meal and that's all I got, I wouldn't be able to overeat.

 

But unlike the cats, I have an opposable digit so I can open up the pantry immediately after dinner.

 

"What are you doing?" my husband asks.

 

"Looking."

 

"You've already had your meal."

 

"I'm just looking!"  Next follows something else I can do that the cats can't.  I can whine. 

 

"But I'm HUNGRY!"

 

At this point my husband washes his hands of me.  If I'm not going to cooperate with the plan then he's not going to participate.

 

Aw, foo.  Now, I don't know whether or not the cats are emotional eaters, but I am.  So, obviously, the next step is assuaging my guilt with a little baked goodie—out of sight of my husband…on a low step stool behind the counter in the kitchen.  Now the cats are staring at me and calling me on my fall off the wagon.  Is nothing sacred?!

 

I recall a time in my life when I could eat anything at any time in any quantity and never have to justify my reason for eating it.  Now the cats are holding me accountable.

 

So I'm sticking to my diet because I have nine pairs of feline eyes trained on me.  I guess the fatties figure if they can't eat all they desire, than neither can I.  Of course, once I started sharing with them, they became my partners in crime.  You know, those bacon flavored cat treats aren't really so bad.

But if you really want some fun, try sampling catnip.  At first my husband thought I'd have to be hospitalized for being a loony because I raced around the house and then tore up the furniture.  But by the time I was dangling from the chandelier with his favorite dress socks clenched in my teeth, he realized the exercise was good for me.

 

I've lost twenty pounds so far. Yet I'll be darned if I know how to politely cough up a hairball.  But who cares?  I've found the purr-fect diet.