This is our cat. 23.6 hours of the day, she is in this exact spot: corner of the sofa, living room, United States, planet Earth, Milky Way, Universe. She spends a few minutes at her bowl eating or drinking, and usually, if she needs to use the facilities, she takes an extra 30 seconds to get to her box.
She’s 19 years old, however, which is about 106 in human years. (Give or take – Dammit, Jim: I’m a blogger, not a vet.) Last night, she decided to let loose (or her digestive system did, anyway), and have a potty party all over the house. It took me an hour to clean it up this morning, and to be perfectly frank, I’m impressed that she moved around so much. If I were that old, I’d have stayed in the same place.
Of course, she didn’t do it on purpose. I’m sure whatever she was suffering from was no picnic for her, either. She certainly wasn’t happy about me cleaning her hind end. That’s another thing; she’s too old to groom herself anymore. Sometimes, when she’s curled up in her spot, she twists her head around and makes a move like she’s going to lick herself, thinks twice and goes back to sleep. It’s the cat equivalent of the restaurant check-grab. “I’m just going to clean this one – nah! Who am I kidding?”
Never fear! We brush her and wash her, cuddle her, and feed her the finest victuals. She’s living a very comfortable life. It’s longer than we expected, but it’s full and rich.
I’ll also be relieved. There are so many times I expected her to bite it, yet she has always rallied. She’s like one of those old French ladies that smokes and drinks gin every day, and finally admits that the secret to longevity is being French. Or in her case, a cat.