I put Momma's requisite “dose” of chow in her bowl at the prescribed time this morning. She investigated it. Froze in her tracks. Ran as if demon-possessed across the first level of the apartment and dashed up the stairs. Stood at the top and howled for almost a full minute. Then she trotted down the steps, went into the kitchen, and began to eat.
If I were to think of her as a cat, this would be a funny situation. She saw what I'd put in her bowl, went upstairs to rant and rave for a bit, cursing in kitty language, then returned, resigned to a fate beyond her control, and ate. But seeing her as someone I love, I felt sadness at her disappointment, or distress. At the very least, she was distressed.
[**For those who haven't been following the saga, Momma ate dry chow. albeit good dry chow, her entire life until the middle of December when I ran out and didn't want to brave the mall crowd to go to PetSmart. So for a week, Momma got wet (canned) food. She reacted quite violently to being put back on dry chow. Check out the story here.]
Or maybe I'm making the wrong meaning from it. Perhaps she ran upstairs to give thanks and sing praises to her kitty gods for another full bowl of food?
My cousin Terri suggested Momma went upstairs to celebrate how well she had me trained to fill the bowl on schedule.
I do not know what the “truth” is in this situation. I do not even know what my own truth is. What I do know is, it's all about the meanings we make.