On little cat feet

Cats are sneaky. Wait! I’m not a cat-basher. Anyone who’s read my books has come across characters who own cats. Some of them also rescue strays.

I never expected to own a cat and certainly not to find myself dosing one with medicine twice a day. This involves sticking my fingers in his mouth to pry his jaws open.

How did this happen? He sneaked up on me.

At various times before I got married, I owned small, portable animals. Hamsters. A couple of chinchillas. These having all expired, my husband requested a No Pets policy. In return, he agreed we could have kids. (He was joking. I think.)

Many years later, a cat showed up in our yard. Sweet, shy and – I thought – pregnant. Turned out she was faking it, but by then we’d adopted her. Actually, she’d already been spayed. A few years later, along came Cat No. 2, an obviously non-neutered male.

Our children adored them, so my husband tolerated the creatures. Cat No. 2 got neutered, while, in the course of time, Cat No. 1 grew old and died. Who helped me tend her during her final days? My formerly reluctant hubby, now a convert to cat fandom.

When Cat No. 2 first arrived, he seemed like an overgrown kitte, and seven years later, we still think of him as a youngster. So it came as a surprise when what we believed was an injured nose turned out to be cancer.

Currently, our freedom-loving but doting cat resides in our downstairs bathroom, wearing a flexible cone to protect his face and receiving medicine twice a day. His odds aren’t good, but we’re giving him every reasonable chance.

The problem is that we love him. Cats are like that. They sneak up on you.