THIS MORNING I realized how grateful I was that Bart the Cat ate the breakfast I tendered to him. Sweetie the Cat is even worse; she sometimes doesn’t even bother to sniff the food before walking away from it. Fancy Pants will almost always eat what I give her, but she too has her finicky moments. The two porch cats are the least picky, perhaps recognizing their relatively precarious situation.

Cats, as we all know, define FINICKY. I think it is all about control. Even though we’re the ones dishing out the goods, they have their way of showing who is boss. They have, over the years, compensated for the fact that they have no opposable thumbs and cannot open cans for themselves. They know that we will trip down Guilt Street and apologetically open another can. “How about salmon, sweetheart?”

They know that the food originates in the room known as the KITCHEN. If one of the cats shows up in the kitchen, therefore, it’s a pretty good bet its hungry. But that is no assurance what you set out will get eaten. “She won’t eat that,” my wife comments. “She had that last night.” Oh, well, I’m terribly sorry.

Yes, the cats are definitely in control of the situation. As the wag said, dogs have masters, cats have staff.