We have two cats, Qbert, a Russian Blue I adopted from my baby brother (and hold responsible for the ridiculous name), and Sophie, a Siamese we got for my daughter for Christmas a couple years ago.
Qbert is relatively old, although we’re never sure exactly of his age. 10? 11? He’s hyperthyroid — I know right? I’ve wished my whole life to be hyperthyroid, and instead it’s my cat — and therefore quite skinny, despite the medication we give him every day. Sophie is a healthy 2-year old cat, not fat, but she definitely could miss a meal or two without it doing any harm. (It also would help her survival chances if she would stop attacking my knitting projects. I call her Sophie-the-evil-Cat, and claim that she is a heroin addict, except the heroin is yarn.)
Everybody knows the stories about cats and the sound of the can opener. Qbert is even more “in tune” with the goings-on in the household. If I go stand at the kitchen counter for ANY reason, he comes to my feet and squawks. Just to be sure he won’t be forgotten, he also waits outside the bathroom door in the morning and squawks, even if my daughter has already fed him. Now if you happen to be working on any kind of meat or fish for dinner, he really puts up a fuss. We made the mistake of leaving a pound of ground meat out to thaw overnight and found about a fifth of it gone; not sure how much of the plastic wrapping he also ate, but it didn’t seem to do any harm.
Anyway, we were eating chicken last night for dinner, so Qbert paced and paced and sat by our chairs, and put his paws up on the edge of the table and sniffed, and paced some more. When we were done we cut the tough leftover bits off the bones and threw them into the food dishes. Qbert ate from one bowl and then the other, and then back to the first, while Sophie sat, looking like she had seen a picture once of how a cat should look when sitting, and waited patiently. We finally decided that maybe Qbert had had enough, so my husband picked up him and moved him over so Sophie could have a turn.
Sophie sniffed this bit, and then that bit, and then this other bit, and then licked one piece like it was a lollipop, and then looked at us, and then at Qbert, and then sniffed some more. It seemed she was asking us, “Do cats like chicken? I can’t remember. Could someone look this up on Wikipedia for me?”
We finally released Qbert, who politely ate from one bowl and allowed Sophie to eat from the other. Guess cats do, in fact, like chicken.