Years and years and years ago my folks lived in Southern California. An alley cat adopted our back yard and had two litters of kittens there. We were never able to catch the mama to have her spayed, but we did get all the kittens to the vet.
Of the eight total kittens, one survived past her first year. When my folks moved to Texas, she moved with them. When my mother passed away, the kitty came to live with me in DC. And four the last few years she’s been with me here in Texas. And in the last three years or so, she’s finally become interactive. It took five years for her to feel comfortable occupying the same piece of furniture as me; now she’ll even sit on my lap sometimes.
And as of this month, she is 17 years old! I’m just astonished. And happy, because I love Frieda Kitty. (For those of you who are curious, she is not named after Frida Kahlo. Rather, she and her twin brother were named for Hans and Frieda in the movie Freaks.)
But I worry. Seventeen is quite old for a Puss.
Talk to me!