When I got up at 3:07 to pee, I was almost knocked over by the stampede of cats accompanying me into the bathroom. When I didn’t feed them and, instead, sat to pee, they milled around in confusion, sniffing at the spot where the food bowl usually sits and sniffing each other, then hissing and flouncing off to pout. The funny thing is that our skinniest cat – Spot – is also the one who is most worried when food isn’t readily available. It’s not that he wants to eat all the time, it’s that he wants to be able to eat all the time, if he so desires. When I went into the bathroom this morning, I was blinded by the sight of Tubby’s ass sticking up out of the toilet bowl as he desperately slurped up water. Standing in line for their turns at the watering hole were Spanky and Spot. This made me break into song, including the Antonio-inspired accent: At the watering holes of the well-to-do I detect a re-zis-tahnce to (precisely!) our heroine’s staaaaahle… The kitties did not care for the tune, the unappreciative bastards. Anyway, once Fred had Miz Poo boxed up, I put the food and water back where it belonged (Spot all but did a swan dive into the bowl), got dressed, and took Miz Poo to the vet. On a side note, I swear that when I’m a trazillionaire, I’m going to hire someone to come pick up the cats and take them to the vet when need be, because the sad little meows they let out in the car on the way always breaks my heart. After signing a paper stating that I was turning down pre-anethesia testing and microchipping (because I knew that Fred would give me hell if I agreed to it – and if Miz Poo dies because she didn’t have the pre-anesthesia testing, I’ll be blaming Fred, you better believe it), I petted Miz Poo through the holes of the box and went on my way. Later, I was on the phone with Fred, when his cellphone rang. “Oh, it’s the vet!” he said, checking the caller id. I waited while he answered the phone. After a minute, I heard him say “Can you hold?”, and he said to me “I’m going to call you back. Love you. Bye!” And he hung up. You can imagine what went through my mind while I waited forEVER for Fred to call back. Miz Poo was maimed. Miz Poo had died because I hadn’t opted for the pre-surgery screening. Miz Poo had run away. I don’t mind telling you that I was pretty damn scared. Y’all KNOW how much I love that cat. Finally, Fred called back to tell me that the vet had had questions about Miz Poo’s wheezing. For a year or so, ever since Miz Poo had her eyelid cauterized so that her weird, wiry hair wouldn’t grow inside her eyelid and scratch her eye, she’s had a wheeze. The vet (not the one we have now, but the previous one) said that it would eventually go away. It hasn’t, but it also hasn’t bothered her all that much, either. She wheezes for a little while, then coughs and the wheezing is gone. She does tend to do it more when she’s upset, which explains why she was doing it at the vet’s office. Fred was impressed because that’s the first time an actual vet has called in person to ask a question. The house seems empty without Miz Poo shoving her portly butt between me and the keyboard, laying under the desk across my feet, or howling to be picked up and loved on. Every time I go upstairs, Spot runs into the bathroom to make sure I haven’t taken the food away. ]]>