So, we just spent a lot of money yesterday for the cat to get an enema.
We love Mouse. She’s getting old.
It made me a little sad having to acknowledge that she’s losing weight.
Mouse was my kitty before I met Donald. She was terrified of Zoe and steered clear of her for…well, for years actually. To be honest, she has only bonded with Zoe within the last year or so now that our kiddo has mastered “inside voice” and “petting” as opposed to “patting”. Mousey is a good cat. She’s witnessed so many monumental events. She’s endured my apartment hopping in New York City. She endured my stint doing regional theater. She survived the 17 hour car ride from New York to Florida. She survived a loud and creepy baby that just appeared out of nowhere.
To be honest, I’ve wondered if a cat would deter a birth mother from choosing us.
I hope not.
Mousey is family. A true member. We really love her. She’s aging gracefully. Poop blockages and all, she’s pretty fantastic.
She was pretty terrified yesterday at the vet’s office. She ran to me and hid under my arm. She growled as they…um…checked her temperature. “It’s okay, Mousey,” I said, and the growl immediately stopped. I stroked her little bitty head.
She’s a good girl. She’ll always be a girl even though she’s actually 17 years old. (Not sure how many cat years that is.) She’s a kitten forever, arthritic hips and all.