Feeling Catty

If you were an animal, what would you be?

Now, don't tell me you've never been asked that before. It's a question sort of related to that philosophy that people resemble their dogs - which is terrifyingly true 90% of the time- so, naturally I've wondered what kind of self-resembling canine I might end up with one day, IF I ever succumb to that particular brand of subconcious narcissism.

I can't come up with an answer, for 2 reasons. ONE: I can't stand dogs (those smelly, sheddy, needy, drooling things). And if that ever changes you can assume that aliens have stolen my brain in the middle of the night and replaced it with rotten Purina. And TWO: I have so many cat-like qualities that it's impossible to imagine myself resembling a dog, even the most nimble, doe-eyed, prissy little mutt. Nope, I'm catty to the core. And today's feeding menu confirmed it.

At 11am I found myself craving the cold filet of salmon leftover from dinner a couple...eh, give or take...nights ago. I wasn't quite sure if I truly wanted to eat the salmon (since I'm really more of a whitefish person) or if I was just trying to avoid throwing away a perfectly edible piece of food. Now, I'm fine with tossing out an old yogurt, a package of stale cookies, or a moldy jar of salsa. Anything mass-produced, preservative-enhanced, and competitively-priced has no real place in my heart. I know these so-called "foods" are a dime a dozen (at best) and no special care or time went into their production. No housewife had to schedule her day around its preparation. And the most offensive part is: No one made it with my satisfaction in mind. Dannon, Pepperidge Farm, and Newman's Own don't care about me, so I can toss that stuff like the trash it's meant to be.

BUT, it's things like a well-marinated salmon flank, charred to perfection with a hint of tamari and dill that I really have a hard time saying goodbye to. It's not every night that someone's mother sends me home with one of these, right?

Psychoanalysis complete, I was ready to enjoy this last rendezvous with fishy. I sat down to my hotel room "dining" table, popped the top on my tupperware and grabbed a...where's a fork? a knife? even a coffee stirrer would do the trick, but alas, I was living the life of a modern nomad, with no utincels to call my own. Hmmm...

And that's when my cat instincts kicked in without a second thought. I pawed away at my pink filet , so tender and cool and... inescapably reminiscent of cat food...and thought, this is the way it was meant to be. Cold fishy finger food can be so satisfying (when no one's looking). I'm sure it's the primal stage of being able to appreciate more pretentious little delicacies like caviar or pate. So really, my cat-food episode was just a good indication that I'm cut out for a life of schmoozing with Russian patriarchs and French dignitaries, confidently chomping away at seasoned intestines and aborted fish eggs. Mmmm, I can't wait!

**PS - I swear I don't like cats this much, but Google had too many photos to resist. Such seductive little creatures, aren't they?