28 April 2008

old now equals abused. apparently.

Whitey, the family cat, going on eighteen this summer, went loose yesterday when one of the parents left the garage door open.

Today, the neighbor discovered him in her back yard when he hissed at her stupidly curious dog, and said neighbor was scared of cat and called the pound to have him taken away. Neighbor apparently had the good sense to inform Mum about all this when she got home.

Ok. Fair enough. The cat is a fright. His fur is matted in bizarre places. He has cataracts in both of his eyes. He can't move with much grace beyond that of a folding chair. But the cat is old. I mean OLD. John McCain-style OLD.

But he eats his food, and he drinks his water, and he still hobbles around and tolerates spending time with my parents.

So when my parents went to retrieve him from the pound, they were being accused of abusing Whitey, because, as previously noted, the poor thing looks like death warmed over. You probably will, too, when you are as relatively old in human terms as this cat is in his own way.

They brought him to the vet for mandatory blood work to find out how much has been done to him and how much is wrong with him ... Dehydration. Right, because he'd been away from his water for over a day and wouldn't eat or drink anything in the pound. Oh. AND. The pound didn't like the appearance of the matted fur--and sliced the cat's back while shaving it off.


The parents finally brought him home little more than an hour ago. He reportedly inhaled his food and settled down in his cat-nest for the evening.

I HATE their neighbors. The neighbors can die in a fire. I have been told it's bad for my soul to wish that people would die in fires. This is probably true.

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