I have two cats. They don't speak, of course, and our interaction is confined to me catering to their every need. They are getting on; both are 15. Gizmo is a male and wants only to be sitting on me in any way possible. Once he achieves that, he's happy. He then purrs loudly until I can't stand it anymore and throw him off, at which point he begins the stalking process again, with the same goal of sitting on me in any way possible.
Daisy, a female, is more aloof. She spends her days in seclusion, showing up for meals and an occasional petting session in front of the TV, seeming to prefer reruns of "Everybody Loves Raymond" to the nightly news. Recently she spoke to me. To be honest, it was such a clear communication, it was scary. Here's what happened:
Two litter boxes are located in an upstairs bathroom, away from the public. A powder room on the first floor of our house is the one visitors use. In there, on the floor, is a large basket full of newspapers and reading material, just in case of an extended stay. One day last week, suddenly and within my view, Daisy entered the powder room, settled into the basket, quite noisily I might add, and relieved herself of excess bodily fluids. I was shocked, stunned, depressed, dismayed, alarmed, and freaked out, fearing this loss of bladder control signaled the onset of her eventual decline.
Rather than rushing to judgment and getting her kidney pills or diapers or whatever one gets for cats with such problems, I decided to replace the basket with a litter box, thinking--hoping--that maybe she was simply tired of going upstairs to pee. After all, cats get arthritis too, and if "cat years" are anything like "dog years," Daisy is 105 and probably feeling it in her knees--and she's got four of them.
Since then, all has been well, and Daisy now uses the downstairs litter box only. I swear she smiles at me every time she comes out of there.
Daisy, a female, is more aloof. She spends her days in seclusion, showing up for meals and an occasional petting session in front of the TV, seeming to prefer reruns of "Everybody Loves Raymond" to the nightly news. Recently she spoke to me. To be honest, it was such a clear communication, it was scary. Here's what happened:Two litter boxes are located in an upstairs bathroom, away from the public. A powder room on the first floor of our house is the one visitors use. In there, on the floor, is a large basket full of newspapers and reading material, just in case of an extended stay. One day last week, suddenly and within my view, Daisy entered the powder room, settled into the basket, quite noisily I might add, and relieved herself of excess bodily fluids. I was shocked, stunned, depressed, dismayed, alarmed, and freaked out, fearing this loss of bladder control signaled the onset of her eventual decline.
Rather than rushing to judgment and getting her kidney pills or diapers or whatever one gets for cats with such problems, I decided to replace the basket with a litter box, thinking--hoping--that maybe she was simply tired of going upstairs to pee. After all, cats get arthritis too, and if "cat years" are anything like "dog years," Daisy is 105 and probably feeling it in her knees--and she's got four of them.
Since then, all has been well, and Daisy now uses the downstairs litter box only. I swear she smiles at me every time she comes out of there.
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