I’m the human here. That doesn’t mean I’m in charge-because I’m not. Danielle and I live with three cats, and somewhere along the way, the balance of power shifted. It started innocently enough: “Let’s get automatic feeders,” I said. “It’ll make life easier,” I said. Famous last words.

Now, six times a day, we get the same routine. The faint whir of plastic gears. The soft plink of kibble hitting metal bowls. The thunder of paws that follow like a feline stampede. It’s not feeding time anymore-it’s an event. I half expect them to sell tickets.

Rosie, the calico, handles it with grace. She’s mellow, deliberate. She’ll stretch, yawn, and stroll to her feeder like someone arriving fashionably late to brunch. Atlas, the white one, takes the opposite approach. He treats feeding time like an Olympic event-vaulting over couches, colliding with walls, and skidding across the floor in pursuit of destiny. And Printz? He’s the wildcard. All black fur and bad intentions. His rule is simple: if it’s edible and unattended for more than three seconds, it’s his.

That rule is why we feed them six times a day. Rosie and Atlas are what you’d call “grazers.” They eat a little, wander off, come back when the mood strikes. Printz does not share this philosophy. He’s a “consume now, question later” kind of guy. If you turn your back, he’s already licking the other bowls clean. We tried explaining fairness, portion control, and sharing. None of it stuck.

So now, everyone gets smaller meals-six a day, evenly spaced. Enough to keep Printz from going on a food crime spree, and enough to make sure Rosie and Atlas get their share before he swoops in. And somehow, without clocks or calendars, they know. Ten minutes before each feeding, they start to gather-Rosie lounging near her bowl, Atlas pacing like he’s in a holding pattern, Printz watching the feeder like it owes him money.

By the fifth feeding, Danielle and I are just as trained as they are. We know the look. The silence that means it’s almost time. The way three pairs of eyes follow every move, as if daring us to forget.

Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if the feeders didn’t go off. If one of them failed. If dinner simply… didn’t arrive.

And every time that thought crosses my mind, I look at Printz-and decide I don’t really want to find out.

Continue reading (Chapter-2) » The Rules of Engagement