So you’ve decided to financially ruin yourself for a creature who sleeps 16 hours a day and occasionally acknowledges your existence. Excellent choice! This comprehensive guide will walk you through the time-honored tradition of spending increasingly absurd amounts on cat food while your own meals consist of instant ramen.
Level 1: “Gateway Luxury” ($3-5 per can) Your checking account still has a comma in it
Welcome, rookie! You’ve just discovered that cat food comes in flavors like “wild-caught salmon pâté” and “grass-fed beef medley.” You’re still pronouncing “pâté” wrong, but you’re trying.
At this stage, you’re buying brands with names like Fancy Feast or Sheba, feeling sophisticated because the can has gold accents. You’ve started reading ingredients and nodding knowingly at words like “taurine” without having any idea what it does. Your cat might actually eat this food, which you interpret as approval. Spoiler alert: they’re just hungry.
Warning signs you’re advancing:
- You’ve started turning cans to check country of origin
- You said “my cat doesn’t do chicken” with a straight face
- You’ve begun refrigerating half-cans in actual Tupperware instead of just covering with the lid
Level 2: “Whole Foods Parking Lot” ($6-10 per serving) You’ve started hiding receipts
Congratulations, you’ve discovered “human-grade” cat food! You’re now buying proteins you can’t afford for yourself. Wild boar. Venison. Duck confit. Your cat’s dinner sounds like the specials at a restaurant you’d need a reservation for.
You’ve memorized which stores carry which brands and have strong opinions about grain-free versus limited ingredient diets. You’ve said the phrase “single-source protein” in casual conversation. Friends have stopped asking about your weekend plans because they know you’ll mention your trip to that specialty pet store 45 minutes away.
You know you’re here when:
- Your cat’s food has more organic certifications than your entire pantry
- You’ve special-ordered rabbit because the store only had quail
- The pet store employees know your cat’s name and dietary restrictions
- You’ve genuinely considered tasting it yourself (it’s human-grade, after all)
Level 3: “Subscription Box Catastrophe” ($200-400/month) Your cat eats better than most tourists in Paris
You’ve graduated to subscription services that deliver frozen raw food in boxes with more dry ice than a Halloween party. Your freezer now contains precisely portioned nuggets of exotic proteins that cost more per pound than wagyu beef.
The food comes with feeding guides that read like wine tasting notes: “A robust blend of free-range emu with hints of organic butternut squash and a whisper of kelp.” You’ve started meal-prepping for your cat while eating cereal for dinner yourself.
Clear indicators of Level 3:
- You own a dedicated “cat food freezer”
- You’ve said “Oh, I don’t shop at pet stores anymore” without irony
- Your delivery driver asks if you’re running a cat rescue (you have one cat)
- You calculate your cat’s macros but don’t know your own
- You’ve referred to kibble as “processed garbage”
Level 4: “Investment Portfolio Liquidation” ($500+/month) The bank called to verify your transactions weren’t fraud
At this tier, you’re importing food from New Zealand because obviously, their venison is superior. Your cat has a meal rotation spreadsheet. You’ve consulted with a feline nutritionist who charges $300/hour.
You’re buying from companies that interview you before accepting your order. The food arrives with certificates of authenticity and tasting notes. There’s a good chance you’re supplementing with freeze-dried raw toppers that cost more than caviar, bone broth made from grass-fed cattle, and probiotic powders that require refrigeration.
You’ve reached Level 4 when:
- Your cat’s food budget has its own line in your financial planning
- You’ve said “It’s not just food, it’s an investment in longevity”
- The ingredients list includes things like “ethically sourced green-lipped mussel”
- You’ve joined online forums to discuss the optimal phosphorus levels in feline diets
- Your cat has rejected $50 worth of food this week alone
Level 5: “Complete Financial Apocalypse” (Market Price) Your cat has a personal chef
You’ve hired someone to prepare fresh meals daily. They arrive with their own set of cat-specific cooking equipment. Your cat’s meals are plated with microgreens and edible flowers. There’s probably a cat sommelier involved somehow (they recommend water pairings).
At this point, your cat is eating meals prepared by someone with actual culinary training while you’re googling “is expired pasta still good?” You’ve crossed a line from which there is no return.
Signs you’ve achieved ultimate bankruptcy:
- Your cat’s chef has a business card
- You’ve remodeled your kitchen to include a “cat food prep station”
- Local restaurants wonder why you never eat there anymore (their prices seem reasonable now)
- Your cat still prefers the cardboard box the food came in
Recovery Is Possible (But Unlikely)
If you recognize yourself in any of these levels, don’t panic. Financial recovery is theoretically possible, though your cat will never forgive you for the downgrade. They’ll stare at their bowl of “regular” premium food with the kind of betrayal usually reserved for Shakespeare tragedies.
Remember: No matter how much you spend, your cat will still wake you up at 4 AM, knock things off your counter, and occasionally grace you with their presence on their terms. But at least they’re eating well while they plot your demise.
The Ultimate Truth
Here’s the thing nobody tells you: That $73 limited-edition Antarctic krill and heritage turkey blend? Your cat would trade it all for the chance to lick the tuna can you just opened for your sandwich. But where’s the fun in admitting that?
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go explain to my credit card company that yes, I did mean to spend $47 on two pounds of “small-batch artisanal mouse substitute.” Don’t judge me.