Why I Choose to Worship the Fishies From the Sky

I awake to growls
Not throat, but stomach rumbles
Bowl awaits, untouched

It was the worst of times for the feline kind, without the Dickensian doublespeak. For the first time in my life I feared the contents of my bowl. They didn't smell right. They didn't taste right. At first, the humom was pleased that I was eating less. As if a great belly was cause for shame. I asked, I demanded, I finally begged—yes, begged—for something different to eat. I'm not proud of the begging, but they were desperate times.

The humom worried. She rarely fed at the font of news, but when mention of a taint in many food supplies reached her, the search engines began to whir. My brand of cereal wasn't on the list, but still she worried. Still my belly shrank.

Yes, humans are that slow. I'm not.

I didn't get sick, didn't let the growls from within drive me to that food. I told her, again and again. I will not eat that food. I need to eat food NOW.

She found me a new kind of food to eat. I danced in celebration. The dance did not last long. Either the richness of after so long nearly empty was too much, or the taint had touched the new blue bag. Or perhaps the new bits fought a battle with my stomach and lost—it is a mighty fighter.

Three days, more meals lost. Another bag of something else. Something that tasted so bad I would've dumped the whole bowl in the litter box if I could have. No, thank you. I'd rather starve. I nearly did.

And then--oh, then!--then came the Fishies! The great and wonderful Fishies From the Sky.

I first received them as "treats," meaning only a few precious Fishies rained down upon me, away from the regular bowl. I knew what I had to do.

I sat patiently, calling for the Fishies in the spot where they first appeared. Sometimes, in answer to my howls, the humom would allow a few more Fishies to rain down.

Not good enough.

Then, the First Bringer of the Fishies came.

She was kinder than the humom, and I could see that she and I understood one another. I sat in my spot and called the Fishies down. The Bringer helped them come. I walked over to my bowl and called the Fishies down. They did not come.

I looked at the Bringer and she understood.

Fishies. Go in. The bowl.

She understood. I know she did.

The humom understood too, but she's as stubborn as I am. Something about changing a diet too fast and "not like the last time" or something like that. I wasn't really listening. I couldn't. The Fishies were singing too loudly.

Eventually, we came to an understanding: the Fishies now go in the bowl.

Every night I give a growl of gratitude as the sound of Fishies From the Sky against ceramic calls to me again. Food is freedom. The Fishies have saved me. Their crunch has healed my body and their flavor heals my soul. I have found a cause that is greater than myself, a rare thing for a cat, indeed.

Long may the Fishies rain down from the sky.