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.

ARGH.

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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end of a line

For early clarification, Whitey is a cat, not a derogatory reference to anyone or anything.

My father writes:

Whitey’s been awfully sick. He can hardly stand, and his head is wobbling rhythmically back and forth like he has lost his equilibrium. It may be a cold or flu, or it may worse. All I know is, Wednesday night he didn’t struggle when I picked him up to bring him into the garage. Last night and this morning, he is still a little wobbly, but he is back to being touchy. That might be a good sign.

It worries me, though, because this description reminds me of what happened to Rocky right before she died. And that, too, was around the yuletide. I don't know how well I can deal with going home to that situation again.

And Whitey is the end of a line of cats that began with the initial adoption of a calico kitten in 1987 or 1988. Puff had Moppet (f), Rascal (m), Rocky (f), and Yellow Stone (f). And, much to our surprise, after being fixed, Moppet had Smoky (m) and Whitey (m).

Puff died and Moppet and Rascal vanished in Pennsylvania. When we moved to NC, Yellow Stone and Smoky vanished (maybe lost, maybe taken). They were all outdoor cats, so it wasn't impossible that they'd decided to move on, or that somebody else had decided they wanted to keep them.

That left Rocky and Whitey.

Rocky died while I was visiting my folks, on winter break from BU. And now Whitey is our little old man.

I don't know. I always thought of Whitey and Smoky as the young ones, but ... he's pretty old now. Sixteen or seventeen, I think. I feel bad for my parents though. I only hear or read about his condition; they have to watch him slowly fall apart.



It's a day for spiked hot chocolate.

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Close the book ...