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A few folks have asked me via email and IM how goes the cat situation. Has the cat turned up his toes, kicked the bucket, joined the choir invisible, become an ex-cat?
Well let me tell you. No, the cat has not thus far left this mortal plane. The cat is currently in fact the very picture of rosy feline health.
Since the time my daughter pleaded to Santa for her pet’s life, the cat has made a remarkable recovery. No longer wraith-like, he’s now moving about with much more vim and even a hint of vigor. His bony back and saggy deflated tummy have begun to round out once again.
I caught him the other day stalking his older sister from behind the couch, his tail twitching in anticipation of the pounce. When he saw me watching with my eyebrows raised, he immediately dropped the stalking stance and began washing his whiskers. You know that look that cats give, as if to say, “What? I’m just sittin’ here!”
Yeah, I got that look.
When once we accepted that the cat would likely not remain among the living for much longer, we determined to make his last days as comfortable as possible. I began feeding him frightfully expensive miniature cans of food in place of dry kibble. I allowed him to eat in the kitchen rather than the basement so that he could avoid any pain associated with repeated trips up and down the stairs.
Under these relaxed rules, the cat has begun thriving once again. He spends his days wandering into and out of the kitchen, an activity that in the past was strictly prohibited.
Because I gate the kitchen (to prevent its plunder by two shrewd toddlers), the cat must leap upon the table, then tiptoe across a cabinet and the counter in order to get at his food. Taking this route in the past has earned the cat a sharp word and as often as not a dish towel flick to the loin or a squirt of water in the face.
But now it’s tolerated or even encouraged. The cat’s sister has begun emulating his new bad habits; sometimes now I have two slinking companions begging for food as I fix meals for the kids.
My eldest child no longer speaks of getting the cat a dying shot anytime soon. I’ve put the cat carrier back into storage. I wonder how much longer I’m going to have to tolerate this influx of furry creatures into my kitchen sanctuary, as well as the squish of pricey wet cat food spilled beneath my toes.
Is it possible that Santa listened to the pleas of my child? Or is it more likely that the cat faked his own imminent demise so as to get special considerations around the house?



