Kitty crack

When it’s time for a normal meal, Bonnie will sit nicely beside her placemat, meowing gently as I pour a bit of food into her bowl.

If Bonnie has been especially sweet to me that day, I will give her a bit of canned tuna.

She knows the sound of the can opener, and the second I place it on the can, I hear her bounding in from whatever corner of the apartment she might be hiding in.

Badumbadumbadumbadum…

Unlike her normal meals, Bonnie does not sit politely whilst I dish out her snack.  Rather, she will try to climb up my leg, meowing hysterically, reaching for the plate before I have even gotten the fish out of the can.

Somehow, I manage to get the plate to the floor without tripping over the cat. Bonnie quickly wolfs down the tuna, licking every last speck from the plate.

When she is finished, she turns to me, rubbing against my legs, purring violently.  I pick her up, and she nuzzles against my chin, as if to thank me for my infinite kindness.  She looks into my eyes and…

…and then the change happens.  Her pupils suddenly dilate.  She begins to squirm, so I let her down.  Without warning she tears out of the kitchen.

Badumbadumbadumbadum…

While I go about my business, Bonnie runs back and forth across the length of the apartment.  She leaps over chairs, she skids around corners, she attacks my sneakers.  She lets out these weird meows in a timbre not usually emitted from her throat.  She has become a wild cat, and no walls can contain her.

Badumbadumbadumbadum…

I try to ignore Bonnie as she races with wild abandon around me, but it can be difficult when she uses me as a springboard to fly across the living room onto the couch.  At times like these I feel like I should sew her a little cape.

Finally, forty-five long minutes later, she is passed out on the floor beneath the coffee table.  Her tuna high has worn off.

Canned tuna is like kitty crack.