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Memories of litterbox

Tara had her checkup yesterday - losing a bit of weight, losing a bit of fur, already lost some hearing and vision. A special senior diet would be better than what I buy her now, but she would probably not eat it - that's what she did last time, as the food that's good for her doesn't taste as good. (One of life's truths.) So the vet figures we just carry on as is. Good to hear that this year's present for her wasn't from a more sinister doctor. Instead I bought her more paper towels to wipe up the occasional messes in the back hall - I think she figures as long as she can see the litter box, it's close enough. Hence the memories of litter box phrase. And at this stage - that's good enough for me - after all she is about 20, or 96 in human years. My friends say - poor thing - I bridle at that and suggest she's fine, it's poor ME, I'm the one that does a cleanup every morning before making breakfast. (So no sleeping in with Mother here.) But I don't really mind that much. Tara spends a lot of time cuddled up to me, so I feel guilty if I head off for a coffee or something, because she wants to follow me. I used to try to reassure her that I would be right back, not to get up, then I realized she was deaf and couldn't hear me. Then I realized since she is a cat she doesn't understand me anyways.

My mom arrives shortly, and I keep trying to tell her to accept at 91 some of the shortcomings of old age and appreciate what's still working. And I think she's starting to see that, although I did say only Tara is allowed to have "accidents" in the back hall. She was amused. She's amazingly active for her age, and still has a quick mind.


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Good one! Hang on to your sense of humour.

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