Tim Dowling: The feed system is broken, and the cat is mad at me | Family

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The door to my office is open to catch the sounds of the late summer morning: the ring of light from scaffolding posts falling into the back of a truck; someone washes the garden furniture under pressure; the intermittent hum of a distant helicopter. Because of all these noises, I don’t hear the younger one approaching until he leans out my door and hands me an open packet of cat food.

Did you feed the cat? he says.

Yes, I say.

He’s harassing me, he says. I look over the younger’s shoulder and see the cat frozen halfway across the lawn, taking a keen interest in our conversation.

He’s lying to you, I say.

But I opened it now, said the younger.

Niall, said the cat from across the garden.

It’s not your name, I say. Don’t let it get into your head.

I think I’ll just feed him again, said the younger one. He turns and walks back to the house, the cat following him on his heels.

If you do this, you will destroy what is left of the system, I say. And I’m the one who will pay.

Here’s the system: In the morning, I give the cat some weird dry food specially prescribed for her kidneys, which the cat hates. At some point before lunch, the dog eats the cat’s food. Then at 6 p.m., after an hour of intense lobbying from the cat, I put wet food in his bowl, which he attacks for about 30 seconds before leaving most of it for the dog to eat in. the night. At 7 p.m. the cat starts pestering me to feed the dog because what he really wants is dog food.

This system is already put to the test because the dog is always on vacation, so there is no dog food for the cat and no dog to eat the cat food. The decision of the youngest to leave the schedule has a predictable effect: the cat shows up at the open door of my office at 2 p.m.

Meadhbh, it is said.

I don’t know who it is, I say. Are you sure you are pronouncing it correctly?

Ruadhan, said the cat.

You have already been fed, I say. Twice. The cat is watching.

Eireann, it is said.

Yes, the system is broken, I say. But it’s not my fault.

The cat watches me push back my chair and get up.

It is not I who obey you, I say. I’m the one who goes to the kitchen for my own reasons.

I walk in the grass and the cat follows me. Once inside, I realize that the problem is not a lack of available food but an excess: the unfinished meal scraps in the cat’s bowl have accumulated in layers, with the unplanned portion of today lying on top of it all in a gooey, bundle-shaped slab. The dog is really a key part of the system.

OK, good reset, I say. A full reset.

I throw the uneaten food in the trash, clean the bowl, and dry it thoroughly, while the cat watches. Then I put the bowl on the windowsill and grab the bag of dry cat food from the closet. The cat follows from the sink to the windowsill, from the closet to the windowsill, standing over the empty bowl in expectation.

Right, I say. Erase today from your memory. It is now 8 am tomorrow, as far as you know. I fill the bowl halfway, as usual in the morning, and take two steps back. The cat looks at the food, then comes back to me.

Noirin, it is said.

You don’t even know what you want anymore, I say.

Niall, it is said.

Niall isn’t here, I say. Niall can’t help you now.

Niall, said the cat.

Niall enters, upsets the system and leaves. This is who Niall is.

Niall, said the cat.

Were done here, I say.

Back in my office with the door securely closed, I begin to wonder if the cat has ever eaten anything other than dog food. When I look up 20 minutes later, the cat is sitting on the other side of the glass. It articulates a name.

I can’t hear you, I say. It articulates another name. And another.

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