Fat Cats

My wife and I have four cats between us, two that I brought into the marriage, one that she had before we got married, and one that we adopted together. They all eat the same thing. It’s just that one is bigger than the others. We call him a cat bear.

This is Plato.

As you can see, he is large. He’s basically the size of a small dog. He’s got a big belly. Our niece, visiting us from Texas, saw him and exclaimed, “Holy hedge, he’s huge!” And he is. I don’t mind people pointing out how big he is. I love my big boy. He is squishy and I love to snuggle him (even if he doesn’t always enjoy it). What I mind is when people ask me if he should be on a diet. Or if I’m worried about him getting diabetes. Or if I’m worried about him dying.

Because when those kinds of comments are directed at my cat, it tells me a lot. It tells me that the reach of diet culture and fat-shaming isn’t limited to people. It tells me that when those same people look at me, they are wondering if I’m going to die prematurely, without knowing anything about how I live my life. They look at my body, or my cat’s body, and make a determination about how healthy we are. It doesn’t matter that Plato eats the same thing as the other three cats, one of which is skinny, one of which is fluffy and round, and one of which is athletic and sleek. It doesn’t matter what or how much I eat, or what my activity level is. The very fact of my fat body is enough.

The next time you’re around a fat cat, or a fat person, just enjoy their company and keep your suppositions to yourself.