Column: Mystery of the disappearing cat kibble, part 1

It was late into the evening on another deadline night when Kristin called from downstairs. I figured she was just checking up on me, as I have been known to fall face down on the keyboard after a long day and mash out full pages of random letters, numbers and an occasional punctuation mark with my bony skull.

“John, come down here now,” she demanded.

“No, no, I wasn’t asleep,” I said. “At the moment, I wasn’t even resting my eyes!”

“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s the mystery! Come quickly!”

I ran down to find my wife standing at the top of the basement stairs.

“I was in my studio and heard some fumbling and rustling, then a big crash!” she said. “I opened the basement door to find these two idiots standing there with guilt written all over them.”

A pair of cats stood in a scatter of Friskees strewn across the floor.

The mystery had perplexed us for weeks, and for most of that time we had each cast deep suspicions on the other for the situation. Before we get to the mystery, it’s important to understand a bit about our routine.

First thing each morning, our dog, Frankie, unceremoniously bats me awake by pawing at my arm as it hangs from the bed. Upon rising, I make my way downstairs, where I start a pot of coffee, send the dog out to the back yard with his breakfast and then tend to the herd of cats. There are three of them at this point, two of our own and one that belongs to our “off to see the world” youngest daughter, Sylvia. That cat, One Nostril Newt, is an increasingly annoying menace. Of our own two cats, Binx is essentially the perfect, low-maintenance feline. Moses, however, could probably be diagnosed as a sociopath, at least according to Kristin, who must lock him out of her world every day lest she be tormented into madness herself.

To my ever-increasing dismay, each of the cats must be fed a different brand and quality of kibble. Binx, of course, thrives on the cheapest, bottom-shelf stuff available. Newt must be fed a grain-free diet as prescribed by his mother for no particular reason. And finally, Moses must be fed only the prescribed “urinary care” stuff that costs $50 a bag—this after a $1,000 vet bill for a blockage.

Accomplishing this ridiculous feeding regimen has been labor enough, but in recent months, things have been happening in the storage areas of their respective provisions up to and including the chewing through of feed bags with sharp tooth and claw marks betraying the feline perpetrators.

This was remedied through the employment of large plastic jugs that had once contained sourdough pretzels. With large screw-on lids, they were perfect for the job and sat side-by-side on a shelf near the bowls. Then, two weeks ago, strange things started happening.

Kristin approached the storage bins to find a lid removed and set aside. It was evident that the level of kibble had been diminished to a line equivalent to the length of a cat’s neck.

“You left the lid off of Moses’ food, and he ate the whole depth of his head,” Kristin chided when I arrived home that night.

The following morning, I reprimanded Kristin for her own obvious transgression.

“Binx’s lid was completely screwed off and laying on the counter,” I said. “So I guess we are even!”

That’s when things started to get really weird. (Like any spooky mystery, suspense is the key. To that end, I’ll leave you with this cliffhanger until next week.)

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.