Chelsea went off to the Briarwood Animal Hospital to be spayed yesterday.
She returned to us today, stitched up and a little sore, but otherwise none the worse for wear. In the car, she was content to lie in the floorboard on her kennel pillow. At home, she prefers to monitor the backyard from a perch on the brick steps (instead of going on patrol).
She’s always been social; today, she’s very much in “Hold Me” mode, sneaking into the office for extra petting and comforting during Writing Time.
Lilly, the female cat, greets Chelsea at the door. Tiger, the male cat, keeps his distance.
I find his attitude annoying. “Tiger, you come welcome Chelsea home.”
Tiger studies an invisible speck on a distant wall. “Welcome who?”
“Tiger, Chelsea’s only been gone twenty-four hours. You remember who she is.”
He starts toward us, then veers off toward the water bowl. “Did you see the headlines about the uprising in Iraq?”
“No, and you didn’t either — because cats can’t read. Now get over here and say hi to the puppy.”
Tiger sighs. He saunters over, parking himself about five feet away. He winces.
I frown. “That the best I’m going to get?”
He walks past us, headed out the door. “Needy, needy,” he says. “Dogs and people. All so needy.”
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