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On Becoming a Crazy Cat Lady

No one ever intends to be a crazy cat lady. It just happens, gradually.

It started with our sweet old cat, Celie that began needing lots of attention after a lifetime of requiring very little. By the time she died we were on a regular med schedule and giving fluid every other day.

Right about that time we got Spot, who was a hyper, continence-challenged puppy.
But, with a lot of running to the door at regular intervals and lots of running, period- that problem got straightened out.

Only, it was replaced by his macho need to mark while the neighbors’ dog was in heat.

Outside of the house I took on the task of feeding a pitiful feral cat that limped over late each night and would eat as long as I sat on the porch steps and watched the entire time to scare off other, well-fed neighborhood cats. But if you could see how battered and scarred he is, you’d do the same.

Then my sister finds us a crying little kitten with a broken tail in sub-freezing weather. I ask what you would do in my place? Of course we kept her. After all we had a little room in our budget for another cat.

Now I find myself hurrying home to let her out of my room (we don’t yet feel good about leaving her alone with our dogs,) wondering if she’s bored like I wonder if the dogs are cold outside. Like I let her claw on me when I nap so she won’t have to go to the cold bathroom…

…it’s too late.

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