Monday, April 26, 2010

Kitty in Death's Driveway

Our sickly kitty.

We are waving our arms like lunatics, chasing her up the sidewalk, and diving under the azaleas to steer her away from Death's actual Door, but she's hunkered down on Death's Deck wedged between a pretty swank Weber and a glass-topped table that still has ice-tea glasses on it maybe from sitting outside in the evening listening to the robins chortle across the yard and whinny goodnight, and the cardinals zoom like Cupid's arrows across the yards and fences home as the arborvitae blackens and the cool comes up from the earth and ferns. The ice-tea glasses on Death's glass-topped patio table all have slogans on them. They say, "Florida! The Sunshine State" and "Connecticut: The Nutmeg State," and "Arkansas! The Toothpick State," which is odd in a way, but not if you think about it, I guess.

Tomorrow we go to the Annandale Animal Hospital where Dr. Paradise, which is her real name, will teach us how to administer fluids subcutaneously.

I hadn't really grasped the gravity of the situation, and said, "Oh. I'll bring the cat then." And they said, "Good idea, Ms. Kirchner."


  1. Oh, poor gato! You have our love. I know how hard it is when they're sickly. Hugs all around.

  2. Thank you. Sigh. Yes, "when they're sickly" poor spewing beast. And darling Brian, who brought this cat to me as a graduation present time out of mind ago, I don't mind saying, from The Pound, a known criminal, and on whose shoulder she pee'd to let him know he was hers, cries when he thinks too hard about her rickety hips, and when she misses an easy jump or has to swarm over the porch step on her belly like the 3rd Infantry taking the Appennines. It just does him in. Trounced by the Inevitable. Sweet Biscuit. Thanks. How are you?