I am an Air Force brat, a self-taught artist, and a part-time mom these days. I work out my artistic demons by making stuff and trying to find the humor when things go wrong. I have a spouse, two grown kids and cats that barf and bring horrible things into the house, so things do go wrong. My youngest is in college and only home during breaks, so I'm almost an empty nester, alone more than not and trying to figure out this new stage of life. Time to make a mess.
A long time ago I swore I wouldn't be one of those people that blogged about their cats. Once or twice I have, because heaven knows I have one or two totally whacky cats that do provide for some amusing tales. But tonight I just feel really sad for Charlotte and feel the need to share. OK, I've had a little wine, both white AND red, but I can't help it. This poor kitty has been a wreck from the get-go. We adopted her when she was eight weeks old. She was one of a litter (have I shared this before?) that a bunch of young adolescent boys found, plotting a game where they'd each place a kitten in the street and the "owner" of the surviving kitten won. Seriously?!? Savages! Someone saw them, rescued the kittens, and thus we have Charlotte. In addition to the trauma of her early days, she suffers from some whacky allergy, it seems, to grains in cat food. That's what the vet thinks. So every couple of months the lining of her mouth inflames as if someone had taken sandpaper to it, at which point I take her in for shots to reduce the inflammation and pain. There's not much warning other than sudden seclusion and reduction in visits to the food bowl. It makes me so sad. Tonight is the first time since we adopted her some three or four years ago that she has appeared on the sofa. I'm happy she wants to be close, but sad that I can't help her tonight. I'd say a visit to the vet is in order for tomorrow. Time to whip out the catnip, poor kitty.