The veterinarian said something to Finian that I personally never heard in a doctor’s office: “You could stand to gain a little weight.”

He removed our cat from the scale, announcing that he had lost ten ounces. That probably doesn’t seem like much, but it was 5% of his body weight. The physical that followed determined Finian is not ill.

Maine Coon cats are typically big felines. They’re supposed to be square-built, sorta boxy. Although they have the graceful movements of any cat, they have a solid body. Finian’s daddy was an impressive 22 pounds. It seems our featherweight took after his slim mom.

I’m pretty sure that Finian was the runt of his litter. I don’t know what his four brothers topped off at, but his highest weight has been 12 pounds. The breeder laughed at the size of our pet carrier when we arrived to adopt Finian at 12 weeks old – and 4 pounds. “You’ll have to replace that within a year,” he warned. Six years later, he still comfortably travels in the same pet carrier.

After the vet made his weight pronouncement, I was feeling guilty. Was I starving my little buddy? I know a few people who overfeed their pets, and I had always been vigilant. But he’s hungry? Because of me? I felt terrible.

When the vet asked, I explained, that we feed him a half a can of Fancy Feast in the morning, and the remainder for dinner. He has a dish of high protein dry food available all day, plus snacks. The vet explained that the average 10-pound cat eats one can of Fancy Feast in the morning and another in the evening. I mentally doubled my cat food budget. “Really? Should we double his meals immediately?” I asked, sheepishly. The vet replied maybe we could increase it slowly, so we doubled his dinner that night.

His snack schedule begins with his morning brushing. Maine Coons, with their massive piles of endlessly long fur must be brushed daily. If not, the living room becomes ankle deep, wall-to-wall cat fur. Finian has mastered the routine, turning his head side to side for the head/neck/shoulder brushing. He then lifts his front legs for his chest and underarms. “Underarms? Cats don’t have arms,” Dear Richard commented. Maybe front underlegs? They are still arms to me. Finian then mightily resists the rest of the brushing, but remains for the torture, knowing that a dozen treats await at the end.

In the afternoon, he arrives for treats from wherever he is in the house at exactly 2:30 p.m. I can set a clock by him. The story is the same at 10:30 in the evening. This sounded like a lot of eating to me, but the vet said, “You really can’t overfeed him. The snacks you’re giving him are quality and he likes them.” A win-win.

I dearly love this little creature, the Lord of the Manor. But he is not cuddly, even though I am his doting servant. The closest I can get to him is snack time. Oh – and he sleeps at the end of the bed, at my feet. Lap cat? Fuggedaboudit.

I do look forward to coming home and finding him inside the front door, quietly waiting for us to arrive. Funny, though, if for some reason I come in the side door, he is there to greet me as well. How does he do that?

I admire his bravado. Our last cat, Ollie the Wondercat, was a true lovebug. But if he heard a car in the driveway, he bolted upstairs, under the bed, for a minimum of three hours. Not Finian. When someone arrives at the front door, he meets them, sniffing their shoes, quietly checking them out. When he finishes his head-to-toe perusal, he happily wanders off to the laundry room, his haven. Dry food, wet food, water fountain, litter box, and a warm corner near the dryer. What more could this little guy want?

Truthfully, he probably longs for playtime outside. He spends many hours watching “Kitty TV” through the glass front door or a favorite window perch. His loves his face time with the local chipmunks, birds and rabbits. But letting him out to pursue the chase? Not gonna happen.

His few rare escapes have toughened him up a bit. These days a getaway means meowing by the deck door within minutes. He wants back in. I think he knows about the neighborhood coyote who is always prowling for furry hors d’ouevres.

He seems content. He’s funny. He doesn’t break anything, and he’s handsome. I’m going to wait and see if fattening him up turns him into a lap cat. Winter is coming. I can use the warmth.

We serfs are used to being patient.