We believe our cat Francie is about 22 years old. She's so old, we just can't remember. I believe DS2 was about 9 the day he brought her home to save her. A tiny kitten, on the coldest day in a raw Virginia winter, eyes still shut, lungs rattling as she strove to breathe. And save her he did. We kept her in a shoebox with an electric light above, and fed her warm milk with an eyedropper. DS2 gave her lots of love, and to this day, she recognizes him and readily sleeps with him when he comes home.
Francie has always been phobic of strangers, hiding in a closet or a drawer or even jumping up on a bed under the quilt. Many a time we have given friends a house tour with an unseemly lump in the guest bed.
The changes in Francie as she aged have been gradual. She moves a little more slowly now, and has become more assertive with the other pets. Her tummy is a little more tender than it was before, so it is my pleasure to clean up bloops where her "hairball relief" cat food lies in a puddle of water and bile. After all, how old is 22 in cat years? She has jumped to the bathroom lav every morning that we've had her, for her morning drink. It is my habit to turn the lav water on to a little trickle so she can drink while I take my shower.
Francie's leap to the lav has become slower and more intentional than in days past. She used to bound effortlessly up to the top of the lav. A few years ago, she began to jump on the john, then turn and jump the rest of the way up to the lav.
Now, she stands beside the john, back paws on the floor, front paws on the john, and thinks for a long time. She stands there, looking at her intended goal. I imagine she is thinking, "Can I make it?" or perhaps, "Push with the back ones, push hard." Many days I just scoop her up and place her on the rim of the lav for her drink. She always scolds me as if to say, "I could have made it myself."
Yesterday was just such a day.
I was in the shower washing my hair when I heard Francie winding up for a good old hurl. "Rrf, rrf, rrf," The stomach muscles were working to push it out.
Now sometimes I can catch her before it happens and hold her over the open john. (We keep our johns closed so that Daniel, her nemesis, won't drink john water.)
"Franceeeeeeeeeeee," I called as I swept the shower curtain open, wet, and covered in shampoo lather. I reached for her just as she neatly barfed all over a stack of clean, white, folded towels. A hairball as big as your thumb lay neatly in the middle of it all.
Sigh. I love that cat.
On a lighter note, we cooked weenies over the fire last night, again. We are doing so again, tonight. Guests who were invited last night had a little one under the weather and asked for a rain check, but LO had already invited a gf over so we went ahead last night and planned a repeat performance for tonight. I'm getting pretty good at packing baskets with just the right stuff to carry outside. It's a good, wholesome time. The girls swing on the giant swing and chat and catch marshmallows on fire. The birds sing to us till they settle down for the night. The fireflies come out and then we gather all our stuff and head inside.
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