Sunday, July 31st, 2011
I was never good at sports. But somehow I find myself in the unique position of begin a referee to a cat and a 19-month old. I wrote last week about my Wayne Sanchez Woes–My Transexual Cat. After I posted it, Fia suddenly lost interest in him (are there blog gods?). It has been so nice to not constantly chase her chasing him. But last night, she came back full throttle. Mauling him, rolling over him, putting all her Muppets on him. When he gets really frustrated, or if she’s choking him, he lashes out. I can’t blame him. And if I don’t move fast enough (or haven’t trimmed and put on his fake nails), she gets scratched.
Neosporin is my ace bandage/ice pack—whatever you use in sports for injuries. It is a permanent part of our survival.
Last night, Phil and I came home from a date. Fia was in bed; Wayne was meowing by his food bowl. I swear the dude has Prader Willi syndrome. He would eat himself dead if he could.
I gave him a few crumbles then plopped down on the couch. He came and plopped down next to me. I look at his giant belly and see this:
Fia had taken her lollipop and stuck it in his fur. He didn’t seem to mind a bit. But we did. It was so sticky, I knew that if I had a half-active cat, our furniture would be covered with sugar goo. Luckily Wayne is more like a sloth. He barely moves. We had to get scissors and cut it out. He just rolled over on his back and let us at it. Post-op I went and looked in on my little devil-angel. Sleeping soundly.
I often wonder what goes through her silly little head when she decides to do certain things—like put a lollipop on Brother Wayne’s belly? And what goes through Wayne’s when he just lies there like it’s normal? I guess they make a good team… maybe I need a whistle and a black and white striped jersey to make myself official. I don’t think my referee duties are going away anytime soon.Add a Comment