Scraps the Cat, always the consummate adventurer, is packing her bags. She says that fifteen years is long enough to stay in one place. In fact, she adds that it's a little longer than she had planned but leaving one of her nine lives behind would be like leaving money on the meter. You can't get it back. So Scraps is going to hang around, apparently, just until the meter runs out on this last life. She's confident that she'll get another nine the next time around.
Scraps has a tumor that is aggressive and lethal. Already she's missing bone in her right front leg. Not that she's noticed the missing bone, though. She still walks around, on what we can only imagine, and supervises most of the daily activities such as cleaning the litter box and reading the mail. She despairs that we'll ever get it right but feels an obligation nevertheless to keep an eye on things.
Canned food is no longer as thrilling as it used to be and she finally confesses that it was never that thrilling to begin with. Throughout the years Scraps has displayed a rather sophisticated sense of taste. Caviar thrills her just about as much as it, well, thrills me. She loves the stuff. Lox is another favorite. She says that her liquid morphine isn't half bad either. So is organic yogurt and good cheese. Not that processed stuff, she's quick to explain. But good cheese.
The vet says we will know when Scraps has had enough. So I'm trusting Scraps to keep us in the loop.
Scraps says that she should eat all of her favorite foods before she takes off and I agree. I tried to buy caviar in Pomona today but the folks in that particular Albertsons never heard of the stuff. So I told Scraps that if she wanted to hang around for another day I'd bring some home tomorrow evening. She's thinking about it but I'm pretty sure she will decide that another day will be worth it. After all, she's a busy cat with places to go. She's already chosen her next life though she's says she can't talk about it right now. I'm certain that somewhere along the line she'll whisper it to me.
And until then, What the hell, there's a dance in the old dame yet.