You should know that if you drop dead, your cat might eat you. We know that, because it has been observed in those instances where the decedent has few friends and no one notices right away that they have perished. The authorities break in and find them with little chunks taken out of them and the cat is just sitting there, not looking guilty.

First thing your cat is going to do is lie down on you until you’re no longer warmer than the room. Then your cat is going to think about it for a while, especially if the food dish isn’t being topped up. The data show that nine out of ten cats prefer your arm meat, although I would point out they might just start there because they’re saving the nose for dessert.

I was never worried about Tater eating me. Mostly because I’d be dead. But also, Tater was a mighty picky eater. Years ago I fell victim to one of those campaigns that insist pets must have highly nutritious food that has to be kept in the refrigerator, and anything short of that is animal abuse. I liked this cat a lot and thought I’d give it a whirl. I put a couple tablespoons, or about ten dollars-worth, of highly nutritious food in a bowl for her and she just sat in front of it staring at me for days, until I got rid of the offending material and put her kibble back.

Well, when she gets hungry enough, she’ll eat the good stuff, I had thought, but then I did some research and discovered some cats are so particular that they actually would rather die rather than eat the wrong thing. And the right thing is not only the flavor kibble they’ve gotten used to but also the shape kibble they’ve gotten used to. Put the same crap in a star shape when she usually eats the disc shape and it’s a no-go. Tater would, in fact, eat her kibble as long as it was the original shape, but the crumbs that got crunched off and are no longer the right size? Wouldn’t touch them.

I might taste like kibble. But no part of me is kibble-shaped. Bag of kibble-shaped, maybe.

Dog owners might become post-mortem victims of consumption, too. It is not unheard of to come into a house and find most of the deceased owner along with a dog farting in the corner with a guilty look on his face. It happens.

People don’t like to think that about their dogs—dog owners are so emotional!—and perhaps for that reason, it is surmised that what has actually occurred is the dog is properly upset at the sudden demise of his master, and commences nipping at him to try to wake him up. And nips a bit harder when nothing happens, and a bit harder yet, until suddenly he’s all Hey now, what have we here? and then it’s all over. I am not sure why this scenario is more comforting. Of course your dog is going to eat you. Your dog will eat your socks. Your dog will eat your raincoat.

Dog owners? Given a chance, your dog is going to eat you, and all you can count on is your dog will feel bad about it. But that’s something, I guess.

 

Here I feel it is important to introduce some material that is not original to me. But I still laugh myself snotty whenever I think of it. You’re welcome.

Scene: The Donner Party. Characters: Mrs. Johnson and the expedition doctor.

Doctor: “Mrs. Johnson? I have some bad news for you. Your husband is…gone.”

Mrs. Johnson: [gasp] “All gone?”