The Gardens - In the Beginning

Saturday, September 25, 2010

I'm Old, Crotchety, Stubborn, and Cantankerous...


Despite the title, this is a positive tale, so please keep your finger off of that left side clicker.  Caught up with my work, a happening that occurs with more frequency as the off season approaches, I'm pondering my next blog post.  This day dreaming on computer is made possible by courtesy of indifference.  No one in this office gives a darn about my blog.  This small work force knows I blog...it was just a shrug of the shoulders...hmmm, wonder what's for dinner tonight...so I'm pretty well free to say whatever I please about this #&%#* job.

Last post, being a little heavy and way too personal, an intimate glimpse of me I don't plan to visit often on paper; calls for a lighter endeavor this time around.  So sorry - all that pops into my brain at the moment is my feline trio, and the approaching of old age for the eldest of them.  Having the tenacity to keep my babies with me in a quality lifestyle much longer than most people are willing or even care to think about (it's a daunting and frazzling task at best), I know for a fact that my oldest cat is no different from any little old fart of a person who wants it their way or no way.  In fact, all of my past centenarian felines have displayed this same unquestionably pain-in-the-butt trait.

Miss Molly, with us for 20 and 1/2 years, managed to stay fairly feisty until the last several months of her time.  She always demanded my lap whenever, wherever, I plunked down my tush, and although a very petite fluff of a cat, she never put up with the shenanigans of the others without a fight.  And the fight was usually with Jesse, my current 16 year bundle of mischief; and although he was a thorn in Miss Molly's side more times than I care to remember, I still have a soft spot for him.  He knows how to bend me right around his furry little paw quite well.

My kitchen is built with space between cupboards and ceiling, and quickly claimed as feline heaven for all who are agile.  I say this, as contrary to most popular beliefs, not all cats are extremely agile.  Zoe, cursed with stubby legs, only ventures to those heights when being pursued with intention of being stuffed into a cat carrier.  She somehow gets an extra shot of energy propelling herself up onto that refrigerator top and the security those lofty heights afford.  Of course, Mommy has a tall step stool, so that security is all too brief.

Jesse is the agilest feline I have ever set my eyes upon.  His removal routine from lofty heights was to walk out to the end of door top edge, and jump to counter or floor below with a thunderous thud that would wake the dead and make your hair stand up on end from shock.  This most persistent and unfortunate behavior eventually led to his demise as king-of-the-air due to arthritic complications.  Well, I've deviated from the original story line quite well, so let's get back to the intended tale.

The rite of passage from middle to ancient age in feline time is that day those lofty heights can no longer be navigated, and playing with toys is met with a deadpan face and total are-you-insane indifference.  It's that day when there is an old, crotchety, stubborn, cantankerous, mind of own, needy, Needy, NEEDY patch of disarrayed fur with slightly
glazed eyes complaining about dinner being late no matter the time of day or number of times dinner has already been served.

Vitamin and anti-oxidant tabs are met with jaws clamped tighter than a two sizes too small spandex girdle.  Medicine pills are amazingly held somewhere in that mouth throughout the entire meal only to be spit out later in another room.  Litter pan placement had better be a smart choice, or those little arthritic legs just won't make the distance.  That body, like a heat seeking missile, will demand your lap if lack of pet heat pads exists.  

If you're the traveling kind, you had better have a pet nanny on call cause old cats go on hunger and drinking strikes when boarded for more than five minutes.  And those insane mealtimes, when dementia, like a spinning wheel of fortune, can pick out a different flavor of preferred food with every stop of the spin, and it's quite possible to open up an amazing number of kitty food containers before the correct combination is revealed; and the old fart may eat only a couple of munches before wandering off to see where the food really is at.  You're left following cat from room to room with food plates
in tow, cause you never really know when mealtime has
actually ended until plate is licked clean, and that could
be three rooms and an hour away. 

My tension's right up there in overdrive, my brain frizzled, and body wasted, cause I now get up two hours earlier than what used to be normal to try and out guess what works this next time around.  Old cats, old people, old farts...you've got to love them all; otherwise, you would have been headed for that looniest of loony bins ages and ages ago. 

1 comment:

  1. After reading this... I knew my mother's dog was in actuality a cat in disguise, and this story just proved it... LOL

    ReplyDelete

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