Franklin

?2005? - 1/22/2019

He was a funny, quirky, vocal Russian Blue that filled our home and hearts for the past 4 years. He was given a death sentence (A Mass was found) at his last vet's visit right after Thanksgiving, and we're grateful we were able to keep him snuggled and comfortable for 8 weeks longer. He was euthanized in my arms, feeling love.

3/2015: Absolutely at home in his new surroundings

9/2015: Keeping the cutting table correctly cat-balanced

7/2016: Quilt Inspector extraordinaire

9/2018: Math Cat hard at work

1/23: as with all loved pets, he's gone but not forgotten. When I'm in the kitchen and a cat shape passes the door, I keep assuming it's Franklin coming in expecting/hoping to be fed. When I walked into the bedroom this morning, I automatically checked to see if he was in the bed's vacated warm spot, as was his habit.

There's a little mental nudge following each realization of what I'm doing and thinking, but a comforting knowledge that he'll be keeping us company for a long time to come.

Unraveled: Merry Holidays edition

Today I gave myself the gift of letting go of this:

Fine. The thought behind it was noble; I'll buy myself a tiara and get on with my life!

In Training

Franklin at his passive-aggressive best (purring a loud, deep, throaty purr the entire time, to show how much he loves me and my companionship):

"What? I'm just sitting here. You can still work around me, if you really wanted to. But did you know that in 3 hours we're all going to drop dead of starvation? Since you're not doing anything right now, why don't you go ahead and feed us, hmmm?"

Food, glorious food

Hubby took to the road early this morning, travelling half the continent on two of the shortest days of the year on his new motorcycle. He's off visiting family; I'm at home enjoying my own company. The clowder is completely confused. There's still a biped in the house, but they don't know how to act. It's not the right biped. They hover, they perch, they pace, but they don't nag, which usually starts in the middle of the afternoon.

"The Loud isn't here. Will we starve?"

Clowdy with a Chance of Hairballs

Since I'm pinned to my recliner by one of the beasts, I might as well do something productive, such as blog!

I have it on good authority that I am sharing my life with a clowder, a new-to-me word which is apparently the collective noun for domestic cats. Hubby asked what would describe a group of non-domestic cats; I suggested "pride" (as in "... of lions"), but a pride of feral cats just doesn't sound right, does it?

Anyway... let me tell the story of our little clowder.

Wraith