My cats eat better than I do.

Their dry food, which is advertised as “natural and holistic,” contains whole grains and vegetables, plus a blend of vitamins and minerals that are cold-formed to retain maximum nutrition and blah blah blah. It also costs $15 for a small bag.

In the past, Rosie Jones, the energetic, long-haired tabby named after a Buck Owens song, has needed prescription food from the veterinarian's office for stomach problems. Why limited-ingredient cat food made of mashed chicken and rice requires a prescription and costs $2 a can is beyond me, but I dutifully bought it. She's my cat, after all.

Like many pet owners, I spend a lot of time, energy and money trying to keep my pets healthy and happy. As indoor-only cats, Rosie and her equally mischievous sister, Maya, depend on me for their food, so I want to make sure they're getting what's best for them.

The pet food manufacturers are all too willing to cash in on our love for our pets. Recently, I received a press kit for Merrick dog food with a large box filled with samples of their fancy fare, including a bag of grain-free kibble made with duck and sweet potato and a can of Grammy's Pot Pie food made with chicken, potatoes, carrots, peas and apples.

My cats' food doesn't contain duck or apples — does that make me a bad mom?

Several of my colleagues gathered around the box of samples in hopes of scoring some snacks, until we realized it was for canines, not humans (and even then, a few of the guys still seemed interested).

Whether that says more about how sophisticated pet food has become or how journalists will eat any free food they can find, I'm not sure.

Meanwhile, I try to eat healthfully, but the effort I put into my cats' diet is disproportionately larger than the efforts I put into my own diet.

And do they appreciate it? What do you think?

They eat their pricy food, but Maya also likes gobbling up pieces of stale popcorn that have fallen under the coffee table. If I'm eating something crunchy, such as saltines, she looks up at me mournfully like a dog, hoping for some scraps to fall.

And if I'm not careful to close the door to the kitchen pantry, Rosie chews a hole in the cheap jumbo bag of store-brand cat food I keep on hand to feed strays and the rare possum that wander onto my back porch.

For dessert, both of them enjoy noshing on hapless moths or click beetles that find their way indoors.

Likewise, dog owners know full well the disgusting, unspeakable things their pets will eat gleefully, which I will not list here in case you're reading this over breakfast.

Choosing to eat junk when better options are available? Maybe animals and people are more alike than we thought.