When you are a food blogger, you write about food, right? Well, food for human consumption, that is. This is a bit different. The appetites involved are of the feline persuasion.

I’ve never been much of a cat person. They act too much like me: a bit persnickety, a bit bitchy, and so stubborn. You don’t own a cat, they own you. They decide when to come and go. Dogs, on the other hand, are affection-mongers. Love me, love me, love me. When you come home from a hard day, who do you want to see? A detached cat who may rub against your leg, or a bounding dog greeting you with sloppy licks and kisses?

When I was a child, all we had were cats. You live in the country, they come around. Many people don’t want them and drop them off, figuring someone else will care. There was Samantha, a gray waif with barely an ounce of fat on her body. Tuffy, a wildly multicolored fluffy tomcat.

The cat that came along and gave birth to one kitten, which died. Another fluffy tomcat, black with two punctures on the bridge of his nose. (Dad put on his tough farming gloves to treat him.) The last cat I remember was another black one, sleek and scary. I was eleven, terrified when he chased me around the house, biting at my feet.

The turnover to dogs happened around that time, after we moved into our newly-built house. We got Pete from my uncle, who couldn’t take care of a mother with Alzheimers and an energetic dog. Pete was zippy, somewhat like a dingo in appearance. He was wonderful, but liked to run off and have adventures. One day he never came back.

We ended up with a husky next. He didn’t show much interest in us. Huskies are not great pets. They are meant to pull a sled. Great to look at, but not really there for the right reasons. Sort of like a beautiful trophy wife.

The spawn of the husky turned out to be our best dog. We called him George. His mother was a terrier mix who was hit by a car. George had a crazy overgrown coyote-terrier look to him. He was fierce, but extremely loyal, especially to my dad. Our other dog at that time was Scrappy, a neighbor’s beagle who glommed on to George. We had two other dogs later, a sweet little hound and another neighbor’s dog who cozied up to her. She ran away, and he drifted back to the neighbor. What a motley crew of comings and goings. George died two years ago, and my parents weren’t eager for any more furry friends.

One day, a mother cat and her two female kittens showed up. Mom took care of them for a while, hedged her bets, and decided to take them all in. It has been a party since then, though the three ladies have calmed down quite a bit. The new gunslinger in town is a young male who arrived last year. So yes, we have four cats.

Sassy is the matriarch, the queen bee. Her highest position in the pecking order is assumed. She stays outside the longest. She won’t be held for very long. You can approach her and pet her a little, but that is about it. She doles out affection in miniscule doses. She likes to climb up to the kitchen window, which we obligingly open for her to come in.

Another cat with kitchen window entry is Tiggy (Tigger). She is a warrior, much like her mother. She is our tigress, athletic and prone to getting into places she shouldn’t. She also has the delightful habit of shredding unguarded toilet paper and paper towel rolls.

Pitty-Pat is our princess. She is Mom’s little angel. She will cry for attention until you love her. She always knocks when she wants to come in. She skates by on her looks and charm, testing the waters every now and then. Whenever I come out of my bedroom, there she is, hoping to dart around me and get in. She cries when she doesn’t.

My favorite is the newest. Mr. Squeakers. He is named so because his meows are a bit broken and squeaky. I love him because he is most like a dog. He is affectionate and still has a bit of the kitten in him. He will lay on you and paw at your face. He has tried to pull my glasses off, unzip my sweater, and unbutton my shirt. What a little devil. When I moved home, he somehow knew to stay close and comfort me. I had a manic restless night Monday and finally came downstairs, hoping for sleep. I scooped him up and rested him on my chest, covering us with a blanket. He was only there for five minutes, but his warmth and purring calmed me down right away.

So I thought, why not cat food? I checked the internet for guidelines, making sure I wasn’t going to make the cats sick. Then I got an idea. I’ve been watching a lot of Top Chef lately, so why can’t my cats be four judges? I’d tally the scores and find out.

I made two dishes, fish and chicken. The fish was wild fish a hunting & fishing friend of my parents gave us. The chicken was chicken breast out of the can. The natural vs. the processed. The recipes were not innovative, but again, I wanted to err on the side of caution. And I tasted them myself. The fish recipe was a mixture of boiled fish, rice, shredded carrot, and cooked eggs w/milk. The chicken recipe was canned chicken breast, oatmeal, shredded carrot, and cooked eggs w/milk.

I blended the mixtures to a desired consistency. When I tasted the chicken, I liked it.

The fish? Merely ok.

It was time to be judged. Mr. Squeakers? Chicken – 1, Fish – 0. Pitty-Pat? Chicken – 1, Fish – 0. Tiggy? Chicken – 0, Fish – 0. (She sniffed, but didn’t taste.) Sassy? Chicken – 1, Fish – 1. Chicken was the clear winner.

The next test was to put their regular wet food alongside. Sassy came back and ate it all. Hmph. My dishes continued to be picked at, but never really eaten. Hmph.

Like any good chef, I assessed my mistakes. Maybe I purr-eed (ha-ha) a little too much, rendering the consistency too smooth. They licked at it, rather than inhaling. And perhaps the flavors were too weak. Perhaps a bit of salt? Maybe I should’ve compared with regular cat food, but I won’t taste the stuff. Its beyond my powers.

However, felines are notoriously finicky. It was probably fortuitous they didn’t eat my concoctions, as it may have caused GI distress. If I were to do this again in the future, I’d introduce gradually, adjusting ratios between old food and new food. Frankly, I don’t have the endurance or confidence. The judges concurred. I had to pack my knives. But I didn’t have to go.