Is Cat Food the Sole Exception to Her Taxation?

Whispers suggest that Rachel Reeves is gearing up for November with a Budget that will cause the taxman’s quill to squeal like a distressed pig. Real estate, retirement funds, earnings, pastries — all fodder for the Exchequer’s operations.

The Treasury is leaving no stone unturned, no pocket overlooked, no cupboard unopened. The sole thing that seemingly remains astonishingly safe from her budgetary blade is Larry the Cat’s meal.

So far, cat food has evaded the axe. But only time will tell. If Reeves awakens one morning and deems Felix a luxury item, then Larry might have to reacquaint himself with the pests of Whitehall.

Which might very well be, let’s be honest, the first legitimate day’s work he’s done in ten years.

The atmosphere is eerily familiar. Reeves is portrayed as Britain’s most vigilant chancellor since Gladstone, examining every deduction and relief with the scrutiny of a headmistress searching pockets for contraband. She speaks of “closing loopholes” and “financial prudence,” which essentially means: if you earn it, spend it, save it, or feed it to your cat, I want my share. There’s a hint of the Victorian workhouse in this whole scenario — a feeling that leisure, comfort, and small comforts are luxuries the State must levy a charge for.

The notion of Larry’s pouch of Sheba being hit with 20% VAT is only half in jest. Reeves hasn’t uttered it. But given her investigation into the nation’s shopping basket like a customs officer at Dover, it’s likely that her fear of the animal-loving voters is what keeps Purina sheltered from the Chancellor’s grasp.

Larry, therefore, becomes the ideal stand-in for the rest of us. He resides in a realm of political luxury, adored, photographed, and never held accountable for his inability to fulfill the “mouser” aspect of his title. And yet even he stands only one Treasury brainstorming session away from being told to earn his keep. The day the food expense doubles is the day Larry resumes his mouse-catching duties.

And thus it is for us. Once indulged, now exploited, the British taxpayer is being subtly nudged toward self-sufficiency. First you taxed our alcohol, then our vehicles, then our retirement funds, and now our every side venture. Tomorrow it will be our pets, the following day our plants, and eventually our patience.

The truly humorous aspect is not that Reeves might consider taxing pet food, but that it has come to sound plausible. When a government makes you think even the feline’s dinner is in jeopardy, you recognize you’ve entered the world of fiscal absurdity. It’s akin to pondering air being charged. Please insert £1 to continue inhaling.

If Reeves figured out how to impose a fee on belly rubs or a tax on purring, you sense she’d act on it before breakfast. The only restraint is the perception of conspiring against a cat with a larger following than many cabinet ministers.

Yet, strip away the feline embellishments, and the message is unmistakable: this scattergun method of taxation is unsustainable. You cannot tax your way to wealth any more than you can lose weight by raiding the fridge at midnight. What Reeves requires — but appears hesitant to risk — is growth, investment, something truly daring. Instead, we receive a Budget that resembles the chaotic contents of a handbag spilled onto the kitchen table: receipts, half-eaten mints, and a few coins scavenged from the lining.

Larry’s meal may remain untouched this time, but the message is clear: the Treasury has its nose in our cupboards, its paws on our wallets, and its gaze fixed on the cat’s bowl. Heaven help us when they start eyeing the litter box.