As I’m cleaning out old files, I found an old receipt from the vets with my cat’s age on it. (I’ve been trying to remember when I rescued her from the tiny pet store cage in which she could only sit in her litter.) As far as I can figure, she’s almost 12 years old. For a fat old cat, she sure is doing well.
Because I’m anticipating moving her with me when I finally get to my daughter’s, I invested in a large carpeted “house” for her litter box. If I had known that it weighs 50 pounds (the inside is melamine), I might not have ordered it. On the other hand, maybe I would have, since it also works beautifully as another sunny window perch for her.
My mom, who is older than my cat in cat-years, is not doing so well. She seems to only be able to stay awake for a couple of hours at a time. She often doesn’t eat unless one of us feeds her. The hospice nurse is stopping in today, but I doubt if there’s anything she can tell us that we don’t already know.
The only time I seem to get outside for any sun shine is when I go out to tend my kitty corner garden. For lack of any other place to put it that wasn’t overgrown with weeds, I tucked it into the space between the driveway and the woods. It’s not perfect, but what is.
Not even my grandson is perfect, although he’s close. He can’t be bothered to put on matching socks in the morning, but, as my daughter relates on her blog:
Our big brained boy wanted to know yesterday how the first person ever born was, well, born — because if he/she were the first, how could they be if every person born was only born after the mother before them was born (this child is only turning 6 next weekend, btw).
So there I was, having to launch into a succinct, but thorough explanation of evolution from slimy muck to Man.