cat food

the first cat was a silver abyssinian, named sly. ridiculously active, found often hanging high upside down from curtains, always exploring daring new venues, ever racing the length of the house in reverse. very affectionate, sleeping half-nights on my head, a quiet cat for her breed, elegantly marked in the abyssinian way, that ticking coloration, her coat a silvery hue instead of the typical brown.  i bought her from a place on lexington avenue, a cattery, three stoops down in a street-front store. famously named fabulous felines. the place was run by cats, but ruled by a certain mrs. greer, a bright butch, true redhead with intensly light colored eyes, the likely descendant of cats herself. she smoked black, gold-tipped sherman's, habitually hanging from mauve painted lips. she wore the same starched white uniform always, a tight skirt, her blouse unbuttoned to five o'clock projecting blunt ammunition. the rest of her was lanky, no hips to mention, skinny legs like those of her cats. she was opinionated and not on cats alone. the voice of bacall, though not the appeal. she sold cats. you wanna-what? a silver abby? you're in luck, we got one, the last of the litter. a heavy down payment, the balance over six month - no refund.
mr. greer weighed four hundred pounds, or twenty eight stones, as he would have preferred, talking down the length of his nose in a british accent, likely acquired in queens. cutting a massive figure, bulb helmet and all, he was seen riding a vespa through manhattan's traffic, center lane uptown on third, a bright purple plastic milk crate on the rack of the scooter behind him. the crate and the bike, his drab overalls, the helmet,  emblazoned all conspicuously, as though on a heraldic shield, with the store's trademark: 'dogs are passé'. mostly he manned the back of the store. he melded an amalgamation into cat food, gizzards, livers and hearts, offal of butcher's fowl, compounded with various secret powders. he mixed, he mingled, he blended, he vatted a large cauldron of the stuff, then filled half-cups of paper tubs in twelve packs to be sold frozen. this cat food was highly recommended and prized accordingly. sly thrived, her fur glistened, her health, ever of concern, blossomed. as such she was a happy cat. there was no longer room for gin in our freezer, a mere cubbyhole up-top right inside the fridge. instead it was filled with those little tubs.
it smelled of those paper half-cups long after my old cat had died. later i moved to a larger place, with a side by side fridge and plenty of room for cat food and booze. a new cat arrived, a beauty of proper feline distinction.
dogs are passé - indeed, mr. greer passed away and the store closed. i heard mrs. greer moved to florida. and my cat lives on meow, the cat food cats ask for by name.