FLORENCE MEOWMALADE came to me on a chilly winter’s night last year. A one-year-old orange tabby with a little pink nose, she arrived at my door in London after travelling for three days in a van with 30 dogs across continental Europe. She brought with her an EU pet passport, a soiled pink blanket and a penchant for snuggling into any available lap.
Growing up, I had a dog (a husky), a goldfish that jumped out of its bowl and a clutch of gerbils that refused to stop procreating – but those had all been family pets. The arrival of Florence, or Lady Meowmalade as she shall be addressed by her lessers, marked the first time in my life that I had a small creature entirely dependent upon me for her wellbeing. And like so many pet owners before me, her wellbeing became my fixation.
During her time on the streets of Vaslui in Romania, Florence’s teeth had come loose. By the time she reached me, she had none. Her foster mother, who cared for Florence in Romania until she left for London, assured me that she still had a healthy appetite and could sustain herself on kibble – dry, compound food – albeit the kind made for kittens. And she seemed to like it. She came to us at least a kilo overweight, her pouch swaying whenever she trotted into the room.
But I couldn’t stop worrying about her little pink gums, which she flashed at us when she chirped or squeaked for our attention. If I had no teeth, I wondered, would I enjoy gumming down hard baked pellets for every meal? Or would I prefer that soft wet mix that, in pet food commercials, you see spooned alluringly on to pristine white plates?
Most pets once got by on little more than table scraps, and whatever extra they could hunt or scavenge. Today, things are different. The love humans have for their pets, combined with capitalism’s eagerness to exploit our every desire and anxiety, means pets can now eat better than their owners do. As a pet owner, the sheer level of consumer choice can be overwhelming. Terms like “complete” and “nutritionally balanced” shout out
