We had to put The Dude to sleep yesterday. After writing the post below four years ago, The Dude had come around. He stopped peeing everywhere, settled in and enjoyed a quiet simple life. He did not like to be picked up or cuddled but would approach for the occasional head pat. His being so inobtrusive made him the cat I disliked the least, even though his dandruff never improved. A couple of weeks ago, he essentially stopped eating. Two nights ago, he hopped up on the sofa beside me. He never did that. I gave him some good head pats. Don’t tell anyone.
This time, I have no one to blame but myself. I could blame the cat, I suppose, but there’s no point in blaming something that doesn’t understand remorse. Or how to use a litter box.
Deb’s the crazy cat lady, I’m not – not crazy and not a lady. At one point we had five cats but lost two in quick succession a year ago, possibly due to predators, possibly due to better offers. Down to three, I foolishly brought a fourth one home; a colleague had to leave the country in a hurry (work-related, not felonious) and didn’t feel his 10-year-old cat would survive the trauma of travel and quarantine.
“My wife would kill me if she found out you had to put him down and I knew about it” I said, “so if you don’t find anyone, we’ll take him.” I’m pretty sure this overture immediately ended my…
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