When it comes to my pets, I tend to have an attitude of “we’ll try just about anything once”. Toys, treats, food, etc. Of course, when you get a new pet, it takes a while to determine how digestively-attuned the creature is. I’ve had pets who would gleefully fight over who got to consume more of that July-sunshine-cured-roadkill one of them dragged home, and pets who would puke from even thinking about eating anything other than their usual food.

Since February, I have learned that Anatole (like the Crumb), will throw up within minutes if fed Pounce treats. Temptations it is. He also will not eat beef-flavoured wet foods. Poultry and seafood flavours of any description are welcome, however, unless they are expensive and organic, in which case he won’t even take a test taste. (Basically, he wants the cat food equivalent of Chef Boyardee.) And despite intermittently yakking one up, he will not touch hairball remedies of any flavour.

He is slightly less picky than the Crumb was on the subject of meats — chicken, beef, fish, etc. Of course, when he catches a whiff he INSISTS he wants some. Whether he’ll actually eat it remains to be seen. But, hell, I tricked him into eating Tofurky one time, so… yeah. 🙂

We discovered yesterday, when I was prepping steaks for marinating, that Anatole cannot eat raw beef. (Our dogs always ate raw meat, and cats are more carnivorous than dogs, so why not treat them, too?) I dropped three morsels in his dish (in total volume equally about half a teaspoon of meat). He promptly consumed them. Good stuff.

However, within half an hour, I learned that Anatole cannot stomach raw beef, despite his apparently fondness for it. I learned this when he puked on the coffee table. Then on the living room rug. I had to run some errands after cleaning it all up, and when I returned home he has since puked on the front mat. (You ever try cleaning semi-congealed cat barf from one of those hard-textured rubbed-backed mats? Cripes.)

This digestive distress did not, however, prevent him from hollering for his supper at 5pm (a quarter-can of wet food — seafood medley this week, I believe). He ate it as usual and seemed no worse for wear.

I didn’t really look around the living room last night when I got home from UFC at Violet and Coffee’s around 1am. If I had, I would have discovered what I ended up not seeing til this morning — two more piles, another on the coffee table (and down the side, and on the rug), and the last, FOR ONCE, on the wood floor, which was blessedly easy to wipe up.

Bloody hell, dude.

I am thoroughly convinced, of course, that the Baby Jesus opened a can of Schadenfreude-flavoured whoop-ass on me for mocking my brother last week for his disgust over the assorted sounds, smells, and substances leaking, squeaking, and splattering out of his newborn daughter.

Point taken.

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