Whit and I are more or less in a holding pattern. I continue to leave Ollie’s crate out and open for him–Whit–to use in hopes of getting him more accustomed to it. He’s been using it more as the evenings get cooler so I plan to get him to the clinic with minimum trauma for some bloodwork soon. His appetite blows hot and cold, but when he’s not interested in eating his canned food, he wants to go out. And when he goes out, he hunts and eats most of the rodent he catches. I think I could make a good case for that being as much if not more of a balanced diet than what I’m offering.
He also still leaves the rodent guts where they’re impossible not to see, usually in the middle of the walk up to the house. I’m not sure if that’s just coincidence or for my benefit–“Look what I caught!”–or the dogs’–“Here’s a little snack for you, Fuzzheads.” I do know that it’s amazing that someone my age can outrun 3 young dogs and snatch up such deposits, fueled only by the specter of said dogs eating said guts and vomiting them in her home, and maybe even in her bed.
The last time my son, Dan, and his daughter were here, they brought me a book called Whittington written by Alan Armstrong. The cat on the cover looks just like Whit (except for the bent ear) and I can see why they thought of me and Whit when they saw it. It’s a book for young teens and has three interconnected threads. One is the story of the original Dick Whittington. The second is the story of a group of animals who live in a barn and the two kids who visit them. A cat named Whittington is one of the barn-dwellers and he tells the group the story of his famous namesake. The third is about the little boy who is having trouble learning to read and grappling with going into a remedial class because he doesn’t want the other kids to ostracize him even more than they do already.
Granted the book is written for kids, but I still enjoyed it. Part of that I’m sure is because, even though my Whit was never as macho as the Whittington in the story, they did share some elements that struck a cord.
Another change is that Whit materialized and lounged on the bench under the window in the living room when I had some friends over. For as long as I’ve had him, he’s been one of those cats who would instantly disappear when people arrived, even the same people who have visited his entire life. Did the smell of vegetarian pizza lure him? I doubt it, but it’s possible.
The more anthropomorphic side of my brain tries to convince me that this was his way of getting even with me for trying to look in his mouth. Naturally, I didn’t succeed and have the scratches to prove that he’s just as resistant to handling as he was in his prime. But perhaps he thought that the fact that I would even consider such foolhardy behavior should not go unnoticed. So, after hiding out all those years when he was such a handsome well-muscled devil, it would serve me right if he made an appearance when he looked so scrawny.
However, when Whit made his appearance, there was nothing accusing about his demeanor that communicated “Look at what a pathetic wreck this woman has allowed me to become.” Instead, he carefully stretched out in a way that maximally exposed his sharp angles and let others judge for themselves. He reminded me of an emaciated model posing for the camera.
He looked like he was enjoying every minute of it.