What Ya Gonna Do?

It’s been a few days shy of when Otis the Cat died a year ago. So stupid; we’d been managing her kitty chemo for years in Seattle, made great promise here in Northern Cali (one of our first visits to the East Bay was driving The Wee to her first appointment mere days after we all had arrived). We moved to the new house; Otis and our other kitty, Taz, adjusted to multiple residence levels (the little place in Seattle was a bungalow).

Taz was older, too (the kind of kitties that we wanted to adopt), but ultimately succumbed to the same hit that claimed The Wee. Tazo’s was a bit more torturous to witness. Gradual isn’t cool. But neither is an Otis “Death Watch” that you know is not going to end well.

OK, so it didn’t.

Now, I know for certain that I posted about this stuff before: I was looking for a respite from scooping poop, and from sweeping wayward kitty litter a half-mile from the litter pan, up the carpeted stairs. Enough, man!

Apparently, I am not loud enough, and do not voice enough of my opinions on any topic, because Kathy thought that the house was too quiet last year.

Fritter and Baklava (far be it from us to change adoption names {Hell, we kept “Otis” and “Taz” because those were the monikers they came with}) are our little girls now. And it took a long time.

So here Kathy and I are. Kath will pull up a Cheetah-print throw blanket to watch television. There is always a certain kitty smashed up next to her. Maybe it’s seasonal; maybe it’s some sort of solar flare thang.

I want warmth in the blanket? I need water from the bathtub faucet? I just want you to stop petting me? Oh, sure. All of the above.

And here I am. No, wait, here she is. Damn.

Kathy and I gave a toast to Otis, The Wee. Kathy and I toasted the little last night. We have docs that had her outdoors in Southern Cali, but much loved indoors in Seattle.

I would have loved to have said that she was toasted with some red from Evanangelho, or Duarte, or a Cline Bridgehead, Big Break or Live Oak.

Unfortunately, it was an austerity-plan everyday red. The toast was better than the impromptu wine.

And little Fritter, pictured here, is still trying to figure out just what is going on. Nine months later, baby girl gots it going on. And I have the claw prints to prove it.

Welcome home little ladies.