Sep 12, 2003 4 min read

I’m worried about my cat. Right now he’s about 8 pounds of fur. The vacuum cleaner sucks up about half a pound of fur each day, which somehow he manages to restock just as quickly. Sure, right now he’s young, slim and trim underneath all that fluff. But he’s named after a condiment, for goodness sakes, so the future is iffy.

Mustard, whose very moniker suggests jars lining the refrigerator door, might one day join the growing legions of other fat cats.

For the past year or so health officials have repeatedly warned Americans about the growing epidemic of obesity. The fact that we are a nation of fatties and growing greater with each passing year wasn’t as striking to me as the fact that it was termed an “epidemic.” In my mind, at least, epidemic implies that something is contagious. Is obesity catchy? Apparently so.

First adults were told they were fat. Then researchers told us we were making our kids fat. And now comes news this week that our pets are porky, too. The National Research Council reported in a 500-page dissertation aimed at veterinarians and pet food makers that 25 percent of American pets are fat. As with their people caretakers, obesity is leading to a long litany of ills, including diabetes and heart disease.

I suspect that dog owners, if they felt so inclined to hoist themselves off the recliner, could do something about this. They could take their dogs for a daily walk and both benefit from a little exercise. Dogs like this kind of thing. Anything that allows them to spend more time with their owners, sniff other people’s yards and suck up compliments from strangers about what a cute little doggie they are is worth the effort.

But what about anti-social cats?

Mustard has been with us for two years now. We see less and less of him. At first he was practically stuck to my ankles, weaving in and out, trailing along just like a puppy. Now he only does this when he wants to corral and lead me to his food bowl.

This exercise is performed every time he wakes from a nap. He panics if his bowl isn’t full. It can be half full, even nearly full, but that’s not acceptable. It needs topped off. If I try to ignore him, he alternates between sitting next to the bowl pondering if it will magically replenish itself, to circling around me until I give in.

I can’t understand this full-bowl phenomena. Dogs, which I do understand, chomp down however much is placed in front of them and then don’t even think about their food dish until the clock once again signals chow time.

Cats, at least Mustard anyway, don’t seem to understand the science of transfer. If you eat something, it’s no longer in the dish, it’s in your belly. In this respect, people are a lot like cats. We’re fixated on food. Eavesdrop into many conversation and the talk is about what to eat, what not to eat, whose on a diet, how many pounds were dropped at what rate, what was eaten to get there, how many pounds popped back on, what to eat to stop this.

Turn on the radio, television, pick up a newspaper or magazine and you’re bound to hear something about dieting. Fats. Which are good, which are bad, which are comfort foods. How about those carbohydrates. Are they necessary to boost energy or the devil incarnate? Should you or shouldn’t you eat meat? What about fish? Not all fish carry health benefits and some can actually make you sick.

For goodness sake, when did eating become this complicated or newsworthy? The more you talk about something, the more you think about something, the more you want something. So if we spend so much time thinking about food, we are bound to want to eat even more food.

My theory is simple: eat what you want and only what you want. Not one bite more. Just don’t scrape the leftovers into the pet’s bowl. He really doesn’t need it.

Luanne Traud is the Herald-Standard’s editorial page editor. E-mail: ltraud@heraldstandard.com.