About four years ago, I adopted my two cats, Wicks and Fatty, from a friend of mine who could no longer keep them as pets. I had cats growing up so I pretty much knew what I was getting into – bascially, lots of fur and litter boxes. One thing I remember learning somewhere in my childhood was that a cat’s whiskers grow as wide as the cat itself. This means the kitty can stick its head into a hole and know whether or not the rest of its body will fit. I thought this was a very neat trick.

Now, this part isn’t for the faint of heart and please don’t call the ASPCA on me. But one day as I lay in my apartment, staring in wonderment at the sheer breath of Fatty’s whiskers, I found myself wondering if that whole whisker thing was true. Before I knew what was happening, I found myself with a pair of scissors in my hand and one side of Fatty’s white whiskers were shorn. (This has happened to me many times before. Thankfully, the victim of my impluse is usually my own hair but on this particular day, Fatty was in the wrong place and the wrong time.)

Fatty was an indoor cat at the time so I wasn’t too worried about her getting stuck down a well or trapped under a log. I figured, the worst that could happen was she’d get herself wedged under the sofa. I don’t recall her getting stuck anywhere and my curiosity must have waned because next time I checked, her whiskers had grown out and she had learned to fear the scissors. (Smart cart.)

So the other day, I was at a stamping party and it was time to gather around the table to watch the demonstration. The table was next to a serving buffet so you couldn’t pull the chair out too far. However, I glanced at the space between the chair and table and felt confident I would fit. What I had forgotten is that Mini Me has done the equivalent of shaving my own whiskers. I headed for the space and my belly hit the chair. Surprised, I tried the old tummy suck technique. The air went in but the belly remained out. No matter how I squeezed, I couldn’t make it though. At this point, I was turning blue and there was a definate back up forming behind me. Embarassed, I had to climb over the chair and then settle my large self onto a seat way in the back.

After that incident, I’ve noticed other alarming situations. Opening the kitchen pantry, I find the door wacking my belly and I have to take a step back. Same for the refridgerator. Distrubed by this I ran to the nearest mirror to check myself out and I could only gasp in shock. My belly is now bigger than my bust. My mental “whiskers” know just what distance I can clear and now, all of that is kaput. I think this may be some sort of charmic revenge for my experiment on Fatty and I can tell you, it isn’t fun quite so funny this time around.

So next time you see a pregnant woman who’s belly inches past her chest line, give her a little extra room. Odds are, she may just need it!