Saturday, while Sharaun was at a baby shower thrown in her honor (or is it Cohen’s honor?) by her girlfriends at church, I was at a funeral. The contrast of our morning calendars was not lost on me.
Sharaun’s sister and her husband are in town this week, so writing has been slim. Today was Doug, my brother-in-law’s, birthday. I took the day off work (after a few unavoidable morning meetings). We tried to make for the mountains, had designs on a picnic by the river at a little washout swimming spot we know. Got up, got ready, packed up the car, packed in the people, and made the 40min trek up the hill. After paying our $8 “day use” fee we drove down to the river.
Once there we found it completely swollen and rushing with fresh snowmelt; the little beach where we’d planned to sun and play and stage our afternoon was swallowed up by the water. Dejected, we made the call to turn right back around and make the 40min drive in reverse (after getting our $8 back, however). We ended up at a local lake, which worked just fine to scratch our hot dog grilling, swimming and sunning itch. Stayed there for a few hours and packed it in.
Once we got home we all crashed for naps, drained of energy by the sunshine. While napping, the cat was curled up near my feet. This got me thinking: Some people take their cats to the vet. We’ve had this cat now for thirteen years and we’ve never once taken her to the vet. I figure, as long as she’s eating, drinking, doesn’t have fleas, and hitting the littler box – she’s fine. A couple years ago her fur started thinning around her haunches, and I guess maybe a normal person or an animal nut would’ve seen this as cause for a trip to the animal doctor. But she didn’t seem to miss the hair, and she is thirteen years old, after all. Anyway I like my cats self-sufficient. As it is I’m planning to be done with pets after this one’s gone to cat-afterlife; so the longer she takes care of herself the better.