I don’t know if this applies to all cats, but Whiskey won’t eat more than she needs to eat. She’s got better self-control than most humans at a buffet. I measure out her food by instinct. A sprinkle here, a handful there. Keep in mind, she’s still a kitten, which means she has two modes: Olympic gymnast and professional napper.
If I fill her bowl too full in the morning, she doesn’t go wild on it. Instead, she leaves a perfect little ring of food around the edge, like a cereal crop circle, saving it for later. Same thing at night. She eats what she wants and leaves the rest as if she’s politely saying, “I’ll be back when I’m inspired.”
It’s hard to tell sometimes how much food to give her. There’s no instruction manual for kittens. Just vibes, guesswork, and the sound of tiny teeth clicking on porcelain at dawn.
Because when it’s morning and she’s nibbling my ear and biting just enough to be annoying but not enough to be illegal, I know exactly what that means. She's out of food. Breakfast time. Not for me. For her. I’m just the alarm clock she chews on.
And that’s been my maintenance plan today.
No smoking maintenance.
Just kitten therapy.
Turns out a small furry dictator with whiskers is better than nicotine patches, gum, or motivational posters. She keeps me busy, distracted, and laughing. And when you’re laughing, you’re not lighting up.
So here I am, one more day smoke free, guided by the wisdom of a kitten who eats only what she needs and leaves the rest for later. Maybe there’s a lesson in that somewhere. Or maybe she’s just smarter than all of us.
Either way.
I got this. 🐾
by Dan and Bonkers
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