The night before Lion ate the string
Lion is still recovering from his adventure in string-eating last week. He is eating well — unless he is too nervous to sit at his bowl. He's been even more skittish than usual, partly because the other cats hissed at him nastily for days after he came home smelling like the animal hospital. But also because we've had to chivvy him out of his hiding places five times a day to give him medicine.
He is supposed to be getting Pepcid pills (which I wrap in cheese) and a bland, pasty liquid to coat his esophagus in case there was any irritation from the endoscope. But Lion doesn't like taking medicine five times a day and we don't like giving it, as he quakes in fear in my husband's arms, so there's been a mutual breakdown in compliance.
"Nobody knew that health care could be so complicated," as someone [far less intelligent than Lion] famously said yesterday.
Eating well and keeping it down are the two important indicators that Lion's esophagus is okay, so I'm not too worried. I'm also supposed to be feeding him broccoli to add fiber to his diet to help him pass any remaining string. But he has no appetite for the exotic these days. Wendy actually finished his broccoli the other day, giving me hope that she has untapped wells of courage and a taste for adventure after all, which might ultimately lead to her someday allowing me pet her — you know, like a regular cat. (Like a typical outdoor cat, who spots me, a total stranger, on his turf and trots over to introduce himself and get all kinds of attention.) I am hopeful; I have recently been permitted to pet her when I'm lying on the sofa and she's on the cushion behind my head. She'll even purr. But not for long.
I hope we will find Possum and Lion sharing that velvet chair again soon. They are not that friendly yet, since Lion's return. I've discovered that Possum is a jealous cat. I believe this explains why he is no longer all mine, as he was for years, but is now my husband's cat 98 percent of the time. It's because I am equal-opportunity. While I fuss inordinately over Possum, I also fuss over the other boys, and I play with them and talk to them. (Wendy won't allow any of it.) My husband spends less time interacting with the cats aside from presiding over breakfast. While he welcomes visits from them, he doesn't seek them out as I do.
Possum doesn't like to share his people.
Possum enjoys watching Masterpiece with us on our bed, and he joined us for some of the seven-hour Victoria marathon on Sunday. The three of us had a good time (and still managed to see plenty of the Academy Awards show, including the fiasco at the end). But I observed that, whenever Lion came for a brief visit, Possum hissed rudely at him and disappeared. Whenever another cat joins us anywhere, Possum refuses to share the spotlight.
And here I thought he had dropped me because he'd realized that my husband has a prestigious job and pays the bills. Maybe Possum is not a mercenary snob after all. Oh, he probably is. But he's also a spoiled narcissist. I suppose we can chalk this up to his early-kittenhood abandonment by his parents, a Freudian interpretation that still has legs in these modern times. On the other hand, he's a cat.
I am going to have a serious talk with him.