Cat Tales

Once upon a teeny time, five cats –

 

 

Sneakers,

Ralph,

Boots,

Slippers

and Galoshes  -

lived in a rustic (that’s euphemistic for “small, work-in-progress”) city home,

which they shared with two adults; the late and much lamented Pooh Bear,

and a bevy of now-dead and mostly goldfish.

In fact, at the time of this entry, each feline has made his or her way past the ten-year marker, Ralphie the oldest, and the dottiest, at seventeen.

As any of us can expect with great age and, in one case girth (most likely caused by that darning needle poking into his pituitary gland), medical challenges have set in, the greatest not our diabetic Boots,

but rather our too-fat-to-make-it-to-the-basement-litter-boxes – sneezing, snoring Sneakers, 

 

who has found comfort and release just inside our front door entryway.

In house, we have tried everything: pans without lids, shallow pans, special trays, happy kitty mats, deterring sprays, magic scents, deodorizers, collars, candles, and hours of cajoling. We have even promised winter holidays in Southern France,

if only he will make an effort to make his way downstairs.

But nothing seems to work. No matter what we try or say, every day, like a diligent chubby cleric at the corner bank, Sneakers makes his deposit – sometimes once; often twice, and on really busy days, three times.

And as tales would have it, there is sometimes a happy ending, sometimes not. I guess for now the way we have to look at it is this: as long as Sneakers is here beside us, sneezing, snoring, and leaving his collections in at the front door, the climax of this story is a happy one.

And until such time as we can find a feline diaper, a kitty treadmill, or an able surgeon for that darning needle, Sneakers will have to remain, and be loved, just the way he is.

Pussy willows, cat tales, soft winds, and roses.