Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, has begun to limp every day, whether or not I’ve tricked him into eating his kiddie steroids. This has two effects on our relationship: I watch him struggle and worry, and he spends more time sitting on my lap, warming up. My lap is the warmest spot in a fairly warm apartment. I’m thinking about buying a heating pad for when my lap is warm at work.
Yesterday, the cat objected to my downward-facing-dog ways and nipped my tricep. Who can blame him? I was stubbornly neglecting to sit cross-legged and scritch under his chin after selfishly sleeping nearly six consecutive hours. What about his needs? Plainly, his nose requires regular and devoted scritching.
As a little black cat bent on stealing your soul, Larry has little time or patience for nail clipping. Perhaps I haven’t mentioned this fact: I am allergic to cats. After years of blowing my nose into tissues with cheery goldfish and raven-haired bad girls printed on them, I seldom notice except when the kitty stands on me like a pedestal and digs in his claws for extra traction. Then I come out in welts. This happens at least twice a day, and I don’t care an iota. Not one! I love the pussycat madly. You will note the ancient and crumbling quilt I keep on the couch to shield my lap from the claws of the happy cat friend. That is the concession I make to allergies.
It’s just about time to take him back to the vet so someone else can sniff kitty breath and decide if we must address another toothache. This is the way feline leukemia progresses. Fortunately, his appetite is excellent, his weight is up and he’s very demanding about kibble. “Where is my tasty kibble?” he asks every morning. “And scritch me, while you’re at it. Hop to!”