Hugo came over seeking some snuggly time with me. A body rub, maybe, or playing kissy face. And then—his attention was instantly hijacked.
By what I was holding in my hand.
By what I was eating.
A pineapple bun. A Chinese pastry that contains no pineapple whatsoever. The classic kind, with no filling. It gets its name from the crust, which supposedly resembles pineapple skin. Vaguely.
John and I had just gotten back from the Asian market T&T. We had discovered that the buns from their bakery are even more delicious than those from Sheng Ki, our previous favorite.
Empty calories? Yes! Zero nutritional value. Zero health benefits. Blood sugar swings? Practically its job description. Weight gain? You can count on it. Contribute to your dentist’s portfolio? I’m pretty sure Bay Area bakeries are running a referral program. Shorten your lifespan? I wouldn’t rule it out.
And now Hugo wanted a piece of the bun!
No, no, no! I told him. Absolutely not! It’s bad for you, I explained. You’ll get diabetes and then I’ll have to inject you every day with insulin.
But you’re eating it! That’s what I read in Hugo’s enormous anime eyes.
That’s because humans are dispensable, I replied. But you, you’re a precious little kitty and I cannot have you destroying your health by eating this crap. You’re an obligate carnivore. Wild cats don’t hunt down bread. Your ancestors never even tasted bread.
And yours did? Hugo glared. I could almost hear the accusatory words in his eyes.
He had a point. But no, no, no, I could not in good conscience destroy his health.
Intoxicated by the butter-egg-sugar aroma, he launched a full-scale carbohydrate offensive. Cats may not be able to taste sweetness, but apparently Hugo had received different intelligence.
I resisted, refused to compromise: Cats do not eat pineapple buns.
What he heard: The ruling class is hoarding pastry.
Hugo the ever-gentle, ever-reasonable, ever mild-mannered Diplocat left in a huff. In search of the ever-elusive pineapple bun. He followed the scent to John’s desk in the other room and jumped up. Alas! Too late. The pineapple bun was gone.
But all was not lost!
The wrapper remained.
He attacked it with gusto, passionately consumed the wrapper’s lingering essence.
You can’t eat paper! John cried.
Too late. He ate a good portion of it before being thwarted by John.
Fortunately, he suffered no ill effects.
And I learned one thing.
No, make that two:
Cats can apparently become obligate breadivores.
And even the gentlest soul has one thing for which they will abandon diplomacy.
That’s just too, too funny! Yes, even Hugo, mild mannered soul of diplomacy/diplocatcy that he is, has a trigger. At least one; there may be others. We must be watchful, mindful, constantly vigilant! 🤣😸
Lol, I love your cats! They are so funny and enlightening. I see myself in each one of them.