As you know, my cat, Grinder, was missing for almost three weeks. He’s been back since last Friday and boy could he eat. However, there was one little problem. It was as if he had indeed left the island during his sojourn and gone to Mexico where he must’ve drunk the water, if you get my drift. So finally I called the vet and asked what to do. She said…and I quote…”We usually recommend a 24 hour fast.”
HA HA! No, really? Really. We were supposed to put this cat on a 24 hour fast AND live with him during it. You know how people have all kinds of grandiose things they would do if they won the lottery (or got a fat advance)? Well, last night we would’ve gone to a B&B. As it turned out, neither of those things have happened (yet) so we all got very little sleep. Well, except for my husband who can sleep through anything.
Our other cat, Miss Sophie did not help matters. She was hungry too, but not on a fast (and couldn’t join him anyway because she takes meds and needs food to go with them). My plan was to keep the food in the laundry room and every time she looked hungry (i.e. followed me around with big accusing eyes) I would toss her in there and let her out when she scratched. Of course, she’s freaked out by being locked in the laundry room, so as soon as I put her in there and shut the door she immediately started scratching to get out and the cycle started all over again. We finally had to lock her in my husband’s office with him so she could be calm enough to eat.
Grinder’s approach to getting food was to walk over all the kitchen counters and lick my cutting board for scraps of cheese (I’d already washed it and BELIEVE me, I washed it again this morning. TWICE.). His next plan of attack was to never let me out of his sight. He accomplished this at night by laying on my head. He has been at my heels, in my lap, or generally underfoot ever since I got up. I probably would’ve given in by now, but my husband would look at me disapprovingly (after he came out of his office where he’s been hiding with the door shut so he doesn’t have to face the Orange Menace).
The torture is about to end, although he won’t get an all-you-can-eat buffet. It will be more like the small meals they recommend in women’s health magazines– nibbles every once in a while until he recovers from his South of the Border experience.
–Oh, and for those of you who wonder if I’m writing this at my new desk…let’s just say there was a slight injury which derailed the work last night. However, while Victor’s foot was throbbing like Fred Flintstone last night, he is barely gimpy at all today. He did inform me that the West Coast tradition of not wearing shoes in the house is for the birds and he will be wearing his from now on, thank you very much. If not for warmth, then for protection from Ikea.
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