Meet My Boys: Banner the Crunchy Monk and Balboa the Diva Prince

My boys’ eating habits are going to be the end of me. I swear I spend more money on cat food than on my own groceries, and for what? For Banner—my chunky, overweight orange tabby who cosplays as Garfield but without Garfield’s enthusiasm for literally anything edible. No lasagna, thank you. 

Banner eats one thing: crunchies. Dry, boring, hairball‑preventive nuggets of kitty kibble. That’s it. Six years of the same crunch nuts. Six. Years. Why isn’t he sick of it?

Every morning I top off his bowl—carefully measured, because he’s already shaped like a decorative throw pillow—and he sits there politely, takes two bites, and walks away like a man who just tasted a wine flight and found it “acceptable.” Then he nibbles on that same bowl all day. Predictable. Calm. Reasonable. Honestly, he’s the only stable man in my life.

Balboa: The Morning Diva Who Demands Breakfast in Bed

And then… there’s Balboa.

Balboa is a diva. A dramatic little man-cat who believes he is entitled to breakfast in bed. I wake up with his “little” body plastered to my side (he’s not little anymore, but don’t tell him that). If I dare move, he gives me a look like I’ve ruined his entire morning. “Bring me breakfast, hooman slave.” In your dreams, sir.

I stagger to the kitchen, swap bowls, give Banner his crunchies… but Balboa? Nowhere. He’s still in bed, waiting for his royal summons.

The Wet Food Ritual That Never Goes as Planned

I set his can of wet food on the counter—not opening it yet—and head to the bathroom. As I pass the bed, a tiny black head pops up from the pillows like a dramatic groundhog predicting six more weeks of attitude.

Back in the kitchen? Still no Balboa.

I refuse to put out his wet food until he joins us, so I go to my desk to do my morning routine—blood sugar test, emails, the usual. Eventually, anywhere from five minutes to an hour later, His Majesty saunters in, stretches, meows loudly… and walks straight to Banner’s bowl to eat crunchies.

Crunchies. The SAME crunchies he has ignored for years.

The Manipulation Begins: “Feed Me Now, Hooman”

I try to let it go. I try to ignore his “I’m starving” whimpers. But then he starts scratching me like a tiny furry velociraptor. Fine. I feed him.

Does he eat his very expensive almost‑a‑dollar‑a‑can wet food? Of course not. He walks away and finds a box to sit in for the day. He got what he wanted: he made me serve him breakfast, even if he has no intention of eating it.

The Waste, the Budget, and the Vet Who Says He’s Overweight

I don’t waste my food.  My grocery trips are  planned and meals portioned out. I stretch leftovers. But Balboa? He licks the gravy and leaves the rest like a toddler rejecting vegetables.

He’s not starving—last year the vet said he was overweight by a pound. He’s definitely flunking his physical this year.

I’ve tried skipping his morning meal, but if I want peace in the house, that’s not an option. He is persistent. He is dramatic and he is very spoiled.

Conclusion: I Live With a Diva Cat and a Crunchy Monk

He is… a diva cat. And I am his exhausted, financially ruined, gravy‑scraping servant.