Living at Ken’s, life was simple. No TV, no internet, the slight smell of mold….all we did for three days was try in vain to eat the last of our food (big mistake) and to watch The Bird Channel, an activity that consisted of the three of us painfully attemting to digest our food while passed out on the couches in the living room, watching the avian population of Dunedin eating our scraps.

With stomachs full of various combinations of oil, flour, and so much cheese.

However, much to my stress-induced glee, birds weren’t the only creatures keen on, among other things, grits.

[sighting: North Dunedin, NZ]

We watched in awe as this kitty NOMMED that pile of grits pictured. I didn’t even know cats liked grits. (As Jenny speculated, perhaps this feline was a southern cat.) At one point it even used its little cat hands to plow some directly into its gaping maw.


But the kitty was really shy, and the slightest noise drove it into fits of paranoia.

Cheered to realize that cats abound in general, not just when living in one’s rented windy hill house, I wasn’t too terribly sad when this fellow, after having eaten his fill, slipped away into the shadows between the adjacent houses.

Okay. So. I now have cause to amend my previous inclination to feed scrambled eggs to stray cats. It is clear now that they much prefer grits, that silky southern delicacy we’ve all come to enjoy so greatly. Also, grits are cheaper. And they get that weird skin when they’ve been sitting for too long.


About bearicaquinn

Smallish, smushy in the sad parts, certainly destined for cat-lady-dom. Enjoys boats, bikes, black coffee, pug faces, sourdough bread, the morning when you have slept long enough, beards, mountainsides, art, rooftops, etc. Will continue to live in things that are interestingly shaped. So octopus.
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