Karma is a bad kitty

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.