Some called her a “bitch.” Others went as far as equating her to the spawn of Satan. To these narrow-minded philistines, unable to differentiate a warranted air of superiority from common snootiness, it should be known that Dusty the Cat had a Greta Garbo quality unmatched by any other feline.
Yes, from time-to-time, she may have acted aggressively toward a well-intentioned petter, and yes, there were only two people (maybe one) on this earth granted the privilege to pick her up, but she had undeniable dignity, pride and polish. She was a starlet with a face for pictures, and also the figure for it, never weighing much over six pounds.
Had she been human, there is no doubt, Dusty’s list of dietary restrictions would have made celiac-vegans look easy to feed. Plus, she would have jumped on multiple food-trend wagons, adopting a “raw food diet” phase, a South Beach phase, and also dabbling in fruitarianism. Diva? Perhaps. Fabulous? Definitely.
Dusty knew what she liked. For example: Melon.
Melon sounds like an odd preference for a cat, but Dusty’s palate desired unusual flavors. Although, a reclusive personality, she’d step out of character for a public appearance for a small taste of that vine-grown, fleshy splendor. All it took was the first slice of knife breaking through the skin, be it cantaloupe, honeydew, or a crenshaw, and she’d prance into the kitchen. Tail up. Ears alert. In fact, had the Network only offered a slice of melon, she would have sold her soul and agreed to appear on Dancing with the Stars. I hope, for Dusty, that the road to kitty heaven is lined with grilled chicken and watermelons.
Her palate was refined. From differentiating between different brands of cat food to determining the worth of a new, acquaintance-candidate, she could make her analysis with one supercilious sniff. Her analysis may have been misconstrued as cold. Even bitchy. Neither is true. Dusty was simply being catty.