Time flies: December marks the year that Albert the Wondercat needs his annual checkup and vaccination. (If only we could vaccinate him against Fancy Feast; that’s the only brand he likes and it like everything else keeps going up and up in price.)
Big Al seems to be in good shape for a 9-year-old cat – he’s more spry than me most days – but he does have a weight problem. In my defense, he had that before I got him three years ago, but he has put on a little extra COVID chunkiness. You tell him he’s going on a diet; I’m terrified of the prospect of a PO’d pussy. As we all should be. They are not pleasant creatures when in a foul mood.
The vets that I go to tend to be relatively understanding about the fat-cat syndrome, although it generally goes something like this:
Veterinarian: “Mr. McCaffrey, your cat is too fat.”
Me: “Doctor, I’d like a second opinion.”
Veterinarian: “OK -– you’re too fat, too.”
(Ba-da-bing! Oh, Rodney Dangerfield, you’re gone but your spirit lives on.)
No, they don’t really do that at the vet. And let’s keep in mind I must know what I’m doing when it comes to rearing felines. The only other one I ever had in adulthood – Boomer – made it to 23 years old (you read that right) before heading to that great kitty-litter box in the sky.
When I adopted Albert, I ran the math and if he lives the same length (and I make it long enough to see it happen), I’ll be 70 when the time comes.
SPEAKING OF CATS, AS I WAS: Last week I had one of my many bizarre dreams, but this one was the first where Boomer and Albert had costarring roles … together.
Which is decidedly weird, because they never knew each other: Boom-Boom was alas long gone (though at a venerable age) years before Big Al was sprung from Kitty-Kat Jail, AKA the Animal Welfare League of Arlington.
– Scott McCaffrey