THIS CAT FOOD WILL SELF-DESTRUCT

"Make with the food or I take out your kneecaps."

Few people recognize the dangers they face when handling a can of cat food. It’s an assault on cat owners everywhere, in fact, physically, mentally, and in extreme cases, emotionally. Sure, the commercials make those tins look harmless. Just peel back the lid and behold! A sumptuous protein feast swims in its own gravy amid slender carrot chunks and other bits. The meal slides effortlessly on to the plate, often in the shape of the animal that gave its life. The cat rushes in on cue, eats, and then bonds lovingly with her owner. It should be criminal to mislead the public like this.

Nothing could be more dangerous than a can of cat food in the hands of an unsuspecting owner. Of course, human error takes some small responsibility (because a human usually has cash and opposable thumbs). But those tin cans are designed to break through an owner’s defenses, lulling him to sleep with pastel colors and happy, serene pictures of cats. Those corporate bastards have obviously done their homework. Most people move right past the safer bags of dry food. Before he knows, the cat owner reaches for a can of such and such pâté, now with crunchy things, completely unaware of the potential blood and sacrifice in his hand. Domestic hand grenades, two for a dollar.

Consider the metal ring on top. Familiar enough. Seen it on a thousand soda cans and more, right? The brain recalls the same motions, pull back on the tab and replace, and sends those signals down the arm to the hand. But a tin ring is cheap. It pulls the lid half an inch away before it snaps off, creating a hole just large enough, say, for the typical owner’s finger to wedge in and pry it open. It’s also a hole small enough to slice hunks of skin away with the effort. And since few people open cans of cat food near a first aid station, the owner has to rush to the bathroom to tend to his gashed up finger marinating in protein ooze. Extensive testing reveals that this scenario comes up often enough to mention here, and that each time, the cut stings like motherfucker.

Once started, the owner must finish opening the can as soon as possible. Cat food is deadly serious to cats. Just look at their desperate eyes or the way their ears pivot back and forth when you open a can. They know that sound, that signature pop and release of air followed by thin metal cleaving away. Never mind that the kitchen stinks almost immediately, a sharp smell like garbage, which means even deaf cats have a way of homing in on the tin can once it’s activated. Those ripe odors attract every living creature within a few yards of the dish. Bugs love cat food, and mice too, which should say something right there. But cats only become more ravenous, as if they sense their competition scuttling nearer.

The pressure is mounting by now. A typical owner just wants to feed his damn cat and sit back down. But the devil’s tin, that antique puzzle box, it refuses to let go of the spongy meat cake no matter how it’s shaken or fingered. It makes a sucking sound like it wants to let go, like it’s trying to push the food free from inside. It’s really laughing, though; gagging as it catches its breath. If only scientists could pinpoint the escape velocity of cat food from tin cans. But then, the calculations are heinously complex, involving variables like the size of the can, the contents (both meat and slime coating), distribution of air pockets, firmness of grip (number of fingers and their placement), speed of the arm, even the level of panic motivating the cat around the owner’s legs. Too many things to consider. The typical cat owner doesn’t stand a chance. If even one of these variables is exceeded, the results are catastrophic. Namely, the cat food flies free of the can and hits the plate with such force that it slides right off the counter, shattering, nearly decapitating the cat. The meat rolls away and lands in a pile of cat fur gathered in the corner, as is found in a typical cat owner’s home.

Dazed, the owner drops the tin can as if it burned his fingertips. The cat notices a fur-covered meal scurrying away and is touched somewhere deep inside where instincts lay dormant. She pounces without mercy, and no amount of shooing or hissing can break through her trance. What’s left is to pick up the pieces of this traumatic event, wipe down the walls, and properly attend the wounded. By the time all that’s accomplished, the cat has barfed up the entire meal along with a large, greasy hairball. Hence, the cycle repeats. And it WILL repeat itself. The sinful contents of each tin hold addictive properties, guaranteeing a finicky attitude toward any substitute for this food substitute.

Only when free market Capitalism has died a horrible death can product designs such as this cat food tin be considered acceptable. That’s a consumer talking, of course. From a corporate perspective, this model is sheer genius. An owner may go through two or three cans of food trying to feed a single house cat. And they’ve all bought in to this design, too. Familiar, warm and fuzzy… dangerous.

I implore cat food makers around the world: think of the lives involved, both human and feline, the unnecessary suffering… when will it end?! Our government should investigate this container for possible ties to Nazi technology. Until then, I implore all cat owners to USE CAUTION when operating a can of cat food. Use the buddy system whenever possible. Together, we can fight back!