THE POSTSCRIPT, Carrie Classon
My mother told me she was worried that her cat, Katy, needed to lose weight. Privately, I agreed.
My sister and I spent the weekend with my parents up at their cabin in the woods. Their cat, Katy, is now middle-aged and not as active as she used to be. She is no longer allowed outside because she is an excellent bird killer. So Katy spends a lot of her time napping — something cats are very good at (and something I think is a good idea for people as well). But over the years, Katy developed a saggy belly. My mother, who feeds her, felt responsible and worried that she might not be healthy.
“Look at all that flab!” my mother said.
My parents had a cat before Katy, Maggie, and she was undeniably overweight. But Maggie became their cat after she was found out in the winter cold, eating bird food beneath the feeder. After she nearly starved and the tips of her ears froze off, I think everyone decided that Maggie should get to eat as much as she wanted — and she did. My father promised they would put Maggie on a diet only if the veterinarian recommended it.
When the vet recommended that Maggie lose a little weight, my father’s response was, “What do vets know?”
Maggie remained a lovely, rotund kitty cat. But Katy does not have this kind of sad origin story. Katy was adopted as a kitten from the local humane society and has never missed a meal. So my mother has reduced her daily allowance from four little scoops to three, although she still gets an afternoon treat called “Katy, Katy Good Stuff.”
“I don’t think Katy looks bad,” my sister said, in Katy’s defense. “She just has some flab on her belly,” my sister added. Then, because she is my sister and a teacher, she picked up her phone and asked it, “Why do cats have saggy bellies?”
No one was expecting any surprises. Everyone was wrong.
“Primordial pouch,” my sister read.
“What?” my father and my mother and I said, in unison.
“It’s not fat,” my sister said. “It’s called a primordial pouch, and cats are born with them. It’s described as, ‘A saggy, hanging flap of loose skin and fur located on a cat’s underside.’”
Now my sister was laughing. My father looked skeptical, as he did with a lot of new information discovered on the internet and not otherwise verified. My mother just looked very surprised. I thought it was hilarious. But we were all looking at Katy in a new way.
My sister kept reading. “’The pouch, which develops as a cat matures, is believed to have served evolutionary purposes such as protecting vital organs during fights and enhancing flexibility for running. A prominent pouch is not an indicator of a cat’s overall health or weight.’”
Katy noticed everyone was staring at her and blinked.
“Well! There you have it,” I said. “Katy is not fat. She just has an admirably large primordial pouch!”
My sister was now laughing a lot, and my dad was shaking his head. I’m sure I imagined it, but Katy looked pleased. “Finally!” I told her. “Someone understands you!”
My sister was still looking at photos of cats with particularly impressive primordial pouches (many of them more substantial than Katy’s), and it occurred to me that I had never stopped to consider that a cat’s body could be all different shapes — how there was room for variety and different kinds of beauty.
Katy was exactly as she should be.
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