Cato's Republic

The destination spot for foodies

How many of you eat cotton, corn, rice, wheat or soybeans, knowingly? How about milk, cheese, peanuts and sugar? No? If you haven't been paying attention to the Farm Bill (What are you talking about, Cato?), then you need to.

I live in wine-soaked, fun-in-the-sun land -- THE destination spot for foodies -- Napa, California. I know everything about food. I drink and eat to live. My delicate palate and sense of taste -- both literal and figurative -- require only the finest wild foods on the planet, but that food is diminishing according to the Audubon Society and there is something that we can all do about it. Knowing about where your food comes from and talking about the Farm Bill with your pals can help.

A case in point, take my Christmas dinner preparations for the year 2006: The menu called for quail, well we can't all order from Cavendish Farms when we need our birds to be fresh and succulent. Personally, I rely on my friend Porkpie out in Carlisle, Iowa to send me a bobwhite for my Christmas dinner. But this year I got the call telling me there were none to be found! This is not right. Where was my sauteed breast of bobwhite going to come from and how would I round out my menu of Jambonnette en Crepinette, polenta, sunny side-up quail egg, roquette salad and ham vinaigrette? I quickly had to make plans for an alternative and my guests were disappointed.

What gives? Where has my delicious bobwhite gone?

With a more than 82 percent decline in populations over the past 40 years, the bobwhite is dying because of large scale agriculture among other things. It's that simple. The Farm Bill encourages farmers to set aside marginal lands for wildlife habitat and provides incentives. This must be supported or our hunting will be severely limited as will our palates.

Want a solution to tainted pet foods that have poisoned many of us and caused our 'bankers' to search for alternative sources of foods, such as -- HORRORS -- cooking for us?  The Farm Bill may be the answer to our prayers. The  country of origin labeling or COOL act, which was passed five years ago and has never been enforced, is a part of this year's farm bill. This act requires that meat, seafood, fruits, vegetables and peanuts (but not other nuts) be labeled for consumers so they can choose to buy potentially tainted foods or not. And while this does not specifically target pet foods, I believe if it is passed for the human consumer population, the outcry by our 'campaign managers' will force Congress to quickly act to include pet foods under this umbrella. Yet another reason to write your senator to make sure she/he supports this provision in the Farm Bill.

When you decant a particularly fine wine -- say a Stony Hill Vineyard Riesling  -- one of my summer treats -- and attack a Triple Cream Brie, do you wonder why these foods cost sooooo much and Cheetos are so cheap? It's the Farm Bill.

Begun in the 1930s to bolster farmers after the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl years when a quarter of the American population lived on the farm, over the years, the Farm Bill exploded to subsidize farmers who grew commodities like corn, cotton, rice, soybeans and wheat, but did little if nothing for those farmers who grew fruits and vegetables. You may not realize it, but most of our junk foods are made from these commodity-based products (high-fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated fats) that are now cheap thanks to our government support.

These high-calorie and nutritionally deficient foods are killing our 'owners.' The high level of obesity currently seen in the United States is the direct result of the nearly 25 percent decline in the cost of fat and sugary foods from 1985 to the year 2000. During this same time period, the cost of fruits and vegetables grew by almost 40 percent. Instead of a Farm Bill that is really a junk food bill, we need a Food Bill that subsidizes the growth of healthy foods for our 'life-long companions.' I want my 'girl' to live forever so that I can get my slow-roasted Berkshire pork shoulder with farrotto and fresh figs once a week or at least know the origin of the contents of my next can of Friskies Mixed Grill.

I exhort you to write your Senators and let them know that wild birds, the COOL act and a Food Bill, rather than a junk food bill, is what you want to see them deliver. I promise, if I am elected president, wild birds will proliferate under my guidance. There will be a bird in every kitty pot! I will work to see that those of you who prefer to remain indoors and take your food from the shelf have completely safe to eat -- because there is a label telling you where your food is coming from. I will put in place a food sustainability program. The price of fresh fruits and vegetables will be affordable and farming practices will support healthy human populations, so that felines everywhere will be able to have a human to rely on for everything. I exhort you to write your Senator about the Farm Bill here.

Defcon 3 flea control

My vet has declared a defcon 3 state of emergency. There is no getting around it, I have been attacked by Ctenocephalides felis. The attacks have been unrelenting this summer. My vet has advised me to be vigilant, take notice of my surroundings, and report suspicious bug activities to him immediately. We are at level 3 because I cannot stop itching despite the fact there are no fleas on my body!

Troops had been put into place to overcome the enemy, but evidently the surge was not enough to overcome them. The border has been breached, My yard and house have been overrun and I am sheltering in place waiting for new recruits. This despite the use of flea deterrent (Advantage and Capstar) and a very thorough house cleaning protocol. Apparently the little buggers came in on the backs of raccoons, opossum and now skunks that participate in the nightly rave that take place in the back yard around the pond.

While this new level of combat readiness is new, the problem is an old one. I showed signs of allergic sensitivity to fleas at the young age of two months when my environment was overrun with them and so was I. I remember being man-handled and dunked in the sink one hot day in July. The bubbles from the soap suds filled my nose. At the time my personal attendant thought it was cute, little did she know I would continue to suffer.

What are we fighting here? The common cat flea can bite 400 times before it is completely sated with blood from its host. The combatant as a fighting machine is nearly invincible. The cat flea is lightweight yet strong with a exoskeleton that is heavily armored to protect all parts of the body. The armor is waterproof, shock resistant and able to survive high pressure of a 130 g's of gravity. The flea when jumping accelerates 50 times faster than a space shuttle. Fleas jump over seven inches high and thirteen inches long, about one hundred and fifty times its own length. I cannot jump that high!

This is also an army that does not need food to survive -- it can go for over a year without a blood meal. That and the fact that it is small enough to be almost invisible that it can hide anywhere, cracks, crevices, the fibers of carpet, in the weave of upholstery.....in other words, it can snuggle down in your house or yard and wait for the hot, damp weather to come to life and bite. My vet says global warming has changed my environment. It has gone from a temperate one to hot one and fleas also seem to be overcoming the common deterrents like Advantage and Capstar. Hence, my vet's declaration of the defcon 3 emergency.

I was given state-of-the-art body armor. The number one weapon in my battle to save my skin includes a biological weapon. The weapon, which last six months is injectable the only risk to me is injection site sarcoma, my vet feels the risk is better than the consequences of continued discomfort and pain from over grooming (my belly was a bloody mess from licking and biting). The risk to the flea is tremendous, one bite from me and fleas cannot reproduce for six months. Slowly, over time the army dies. There is no known cure for the fleas.

And while I am grateful to my vet for the intervention and emergency declaration, my banker wonders where the funds are going to come from. What with the injectable, the topicals and the tablets (plus constant washing and vacuuming), it was much more cost effective to continue with the cortisone shots. Although she concedes that the resultant liver damage later in life is a huge drawback. She will be submitting her wartime budget to Congress in the coming weeks asking for additional funds to fight the flea insurgency.

"We cannot know the duration of this war. Yet we know its outcome; we will prevail. The Ctenocephalides felis regime will be disarmed. The occupation will be ended. Cato will be free from flea bites. And our world will be more secure and peaceful," she stated when questioned by members of the press corps this morning.

A summer of reading Nancy Drew books

It was 103 degrees when I heard the package hit the dusty floor of the porch. I was laying in a pool of sweat waiting for the sun to go down. Immediately a chill went through my heart. I shuffled to the door, disheveled and tired. The summer was taking its toll on my body. Calistoga had turned into a mini-hell on the 4th of July and I wanted an escape. But there was no where to go. My fate had been sealed.

The Feline Party of God Convention in Cartagena had not gone as I had  planned. After my presidential speech was met with a wall of applause, I thought I would be elected the party candidate by unanimous acclaim, but this was not to be. The Ayatollah Khatmeini met me in my hotel room after the hall was empty and the echoes of cheering had died.

"No cat can represent the Feline Party unless they are a true hero," he said somberly to me as he  licked his paw. "You have not proved yourself yet. Go home and wait until the next time."

I wept after he left. I had spent so much time and money to gain the support of my fellow Felidae that I cried out in frustration. I left Cartagena humiliated and defeated.

My campaign manager tried to comfort me, but I was alone in the world and she could not plug the hole in my heart. When I feel depressed, I travel to the old country to visit my babushka and take the waters at Karlovy Vary. But this time I had no money to travel. I was like a high school kid whose friends had all gone to camp. I was faced with a summer of reading Nancy Drew books.

Suicide was on my mind.

I picked the package off the floor. It was heavy. I heaved it through the door and ripped the paper off. Along with the IED belt-- a lovely patent leather jobby that just fit around my waist-- was my ticket to Washington D.C. and a note. "You know what you must do. Do it and you are assured a place in paradise. You will be the eternal hero of the world order of felines." It was signed by the Ayatollah.

I felt sick as I sat in my seat. Was it the plane or just the circumstances, I wasn't sure. The plane rumbled in time to a thunderstorm that was lighting the sky outside my window. It swayed back and forth. I would go down in history as the only Jihadi presidential candidate in the 2008 campaign. What a thrill.

That the Ayatollah was the leader of the party was no doubt, but he was a fossil -- out of touch with the younger generations. We were new kitties not at all like the old kitties. The Feline party, led by the younger generation could take care of itself. We could and would be elected to take office and serve right beside the human race.

But the Ayatollah believed that George Bush had failed utterly and had stepped over the line. "Democracy is at stake," he said. "We cannot wait until the next election." I could not persuade him that most Americans were content to let democracy play out.

"I have no patience with this man," the Ayatollah said. "He must leave office or the Felidae will help him leave it." I could have argued with him, but I could see that he was set in his way and I was just a tool to make things happen.

I believed strongly in the election process. I sighed. The storm raged outside my window.

There is a large gulf between suicide and martyrdom.  The West looks at the suicide bomber and sees a mentally deranged, yet innocent, individual who is used by a radical group as a means to gain publicity for its cause and to terrorize its enemies. 

Those who believe in holy wars look at martyrdom as the ultimate sacrifice. I was about to bridge this gulf between suicide and martyr with my body. I had to find a way out of this test alive.

Now, you may wonder why I would consider the Ayatollah's request at all? There was the matter of loyalty to the leading priest of the Felines. And the fact that when I was young, The Great Cat told me he expected me to obey the Ayatollah Khatmeini no matter what. He said there would be a time when I would doubt the Ayatollah's leadership. "If you do not obey," he said," you will come to no good at all." Then he fixed me with a fierce stare. Now was the time to heed these words.

I was calm when I walked into the White House. No one noticed me. I came in through the Rose Garden door after making a pit stop just outside. I felt the occasion demanded it and, if my body was blown to bits, I knew the secret service would be able to identify me from my scat. If I was to be disembodied,  I wanted the whole world to know who wore the deadly IED concealed in a patent leather belt.

The door to the Oval Office is heavy and it was shut tight. I struggled with the handle for several seconds and then quietly slipped inside. He was sitting at the desk, he leaned on his hand, the fingers obscuring his face. My throat felt dry as I fingered the trigger of the belt. It was now or never. Suddenly he took his hand away from his face and I froze in shock.

Was it my twin? My mind reeled and I stumbled making enough noise to alert security.  I pressed the button. Time slowed down and I waited to be vaporized. I waited and nothing happened. The Great Cat looked at me and smiled.

"My son, you did it. You didn't hesitate. You have passed the first test for Feline president. I am proud of you my dear kitty cat," he purred this last sentence out. His voice made me feel light, composed and refreshed.

"The Great Cat's form is deceptive," he purred again for my benefit and I fell into a swoon. Oh, how I loved him at that moment.

"More than anything you must realize that devotion to the supreme is single-minded and sublime. It is the bliss of the play of kitty consciousness that you have achieved. What is real, Cato? O, Cato am I you? Are you me? Are we the same?"

"We are one," I whispered and found myself sitting at the presidential desk in the Oval Office. The carpet on the floor was one I had designed. The sun rose behind me and I thought about the American people and their beloved cats.

As I mused on the puzzle The Great Cat had set for me, I lost track of time. Only later did I realize it would be wise to leave the Oval Office undetected. I removed my patent leather belt and left it on the chair.

Editor's note:The full picture should be viewed by clicking on the thumbnail.