Hey, remember the rebus from a couple of weeks ago? You know, the one where I said:
my cat Patty + lying on newly knit cashmere sweater = pet cemetery?
Yeah, um. We had to put Patty to sleep a couple of nights ago. On the way home from our trip, our very attentive house/cat sitter called to say that Patty didn’t seem well. By the time we got home, things had taken a sharp turn for the worse and she looked utterly miserable. In fact, as we walked in the door, she had just vomited up a huge puddle of brown liquid. She hadn’t eaten in 24 hours, which meant she hadn’t had any insulin for 24 hours. She wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink — couldn’t even walk straight. Not good.
Jack took her to the vet that night and they told us that a good $2-3K might fix her right up, but that in the shape she was in, in all likelihood we would be back every few months for another massive treatment. OK, the money’s one thing, but she’s going to get this sick repeatedly? No, thanks.
So poor Patty only made it through about eight years of life. (We’re not exactly sure how old she was — she had been through several revolving doors before getting to us.) Our cats are not the lovey, sentimental kind of cats, but I miss her nonetheless. She had a real personality: moxie and patience with small, grabbing children, and a stubborn commitment to hedonism.
So now we have the one cat, Selma, who has been trolling around the house meowing her brains out for the last couple of days. I almost don’t want to clean up the white cat hair because it will mean she really, really is gone.
Let’s play a rebus game! (First picture + second picture = third picture.)
Let’s review, in riddle form:
Q: How does a cat reward her person for spending scores of hours sketching, plotting, knitting, and writing the design for a men’s sweater design?
A: She waits until her person has the navy blue sweater all pinned out to block, and then promptly lies down on it. Actually, she first checks to make sure all of her whitest fur is feeling particularly loose that day, then she tucks herself ever so daintily in between all the pins, and THEN she lies down.
Oh, and don’t give me that “she’s a cat — she’s just looking for a soft surface to lie down on.” She knows. She KNOWS.
Dear Cat #1,
You may recall that a scant few weeks ago I sang your praises as Exalted Eater of All Moths. I regret to inform you that we will no longer be needing your services.
You have been observed treating several of your person’s small craft items as if they were “fresh kills.” This began last week with the pincushion. Your person shudders to think what would have ensued had you swallowed one of those pins.
Today, you were spotted carrying a small skein of handspun yarn from the craft room. HR will be coming for your keys later this afternoon.
You see this cat?
This is Patty. She is one of our two eight-year-old cats. She is pretty and also very chubby, lazy, and surly. She spends most of her time covering our furniture with cat hair and barf. The rest of the time she spends begging for food and licking the butter off of Liam’s toast in the morning.
Until today. Today, Patty redeemed herself.
We were all sitting here, minding our own business, when a giant moth emerged out of nowhere. I mean it was at least four feet across, or maybe two inches across — but either way, it was not a pleasant sight to see dive-bombing at your head.
Now, even Patty will get up for something like that. She chased it all over the room, and finally nailed it against the wall.
Guess where the moth fell after being pinned? INTO MY KNITTING BASKET. Right to the bottom. I immediately imagined it trying to eat its way out of the bag of wooly goodness, destroying hundreds of hours of work.
As soon as she saw the bug fall, Patty leapt into the knitting basket and started to dig wildly down through the layers of yarn and tools. Normally, this would arouse my ire, but in this case, I let her have at it. I dug things out of her way, until finally she spotted the moth, grabbed it in her mouth and ate it.
I have spent the rest of the evening trying to keep her from jumping back into the knitting basket. Just goes to show that there are no free lunches with cats.