

It really doesn’t seem to matter how many times I explain to my cat, Buster, that he doesn’t want to eat my yoghurt. In the moment, he is 100 per cent convinced he will find it delicious. He gets this look on his adorable little face that is nine parts curiosity, one part serious indignation.
As I raise the spoon towards my lips, he studies its path from the tub to my mouth with the kind of intensity I usually reserve for a Jake Gyllenhall movie (or maybe Henry Cavill pre-Superman). I find myself explaining to him that yoghurt is not a cat food. Again.
He meows.
He is so intrigued and just has to know what the heck I am eating. So (and I am not kidding I am a total sucker and this happens every time) I relent and dab a small spot on my finger and stick it out to him. He sniffs it, takes a very tentative lick and then wrinkles his shiny wet nose and turns tail and walks away.
Sometimes, he runs.
And I am left, once again, with cat-aminated yogurt on my finger.
He can’t help it though. He’s just your typical, super curious little ball of fur. Cats just love to know what their human friends are up to. All. The. Damn. Time. Curiosity didn’t kill the cat, the cat owner who can’t take two steps without being followed fell down the stairs and landed on it.
Well, this is what I tell myself, but maybe it’s not normal? I’m no expert, so I decided to ask someone who was about some of Buster’s peculiar habits (and also a longstanding mystery about my childhood bestie Joe).
