A while back, I went out on the balcony on the second floor. I rarely do, especially in winter, but I was surprised to see an orange and white tabby cat curled up in a sunny spot. He bolted as soon as I opened the door.
I set a cardboard box up, stuffing it with two large bed pillows and and a torn flannel sheet. I folded two of the flaps in so that there was a small entrance to it and tucked it in a place where it was protected from the wind.
I kept a watchful eye out for him, to see if he was a regular. Did he need to be fed?
A couple weeks later, I saw the cat on facebook. Someone a couple blocks away had posted a picture of him, looking for his owner. He looked as if he'd struggled out there on his own. I commented that I'd seen him down at my place and had set up lodging for him. I said that I was glad to see that someone had taken him because I can't.
And I really can't. I already have a cat.
(Tim would kill me.)
William and I were walking out to the car a few days back. "Ooooooooohhh," he said. "There's a hurt cat." And there he was. He looked as if he'd been in quite a cat fight. We went back to set out a bowl of food for him. We had a little conversation, and he mewed back in a tired, dispirited way, but he wouldn't come. I don't think it would take much to over come that, though.
Yesterday, I was by myself, so I snuck upstairs with catfood, both canned and dry. I went out on the balcony to set out food there, right next to the box. I was hopeful that he would recognize it as a safe place to receive food and be warm. rest and heal.
Today, I see that the catfood has been partially eaten. I hope he was sleeping soundly in the box. I did not want to open the door and scare him away. I can check later when I refill the dishes.
He just looked so very miserable, and nisery breaks my heart. It makes me literally feel sick.
(To be continued, I hope)
Tim's done with his Holter monitor, and boy, was he ever glad about that. He took it off, we boxed the unit up and returned it to the company following their instructions.
On Pi Day, I heard the phone ring. I was making an apple pie, but Tim got it. The call was short, but I could hear him answering in the other room. He came out when he was done and said, "The monitoring indicated no A-fib. No irregularities."
"That's good," I said. "I kind of thought it wouldn't. You've never had any symptoms before you got so sick. You haven't had any since." I stirred the cinnamon and vanilla into the apple slices.
Tim cleared his throat. "They talked to me about the implant."
I looked over.
His face got the stubborn look I hadn't seen for awhile. "I told them no. I didn't want it. I'm not doing it."
"What did they say?"
"They said, 'Okay,' " he said, and walked back out of the room.
Houdini really does love his boy something fierce. In fact when William goes upstairs to go to bed, Houdini roams around, meowing forlornly. It's gotten to the point where he comes out to the office and sits beside me, patting my chair and meowing with a question. He's begun to allow me to pick him up and will sit on my lap purring while I type.
He's here right this minute as a matter of fact.
I know that I'm his second choice and probably always will be, but a lapful of purring cat is a comfort.