Kindly Póg Mo Thóin

Kat will get the reference in the title of this post; it’s a family joke.  One day our youngest brother Tom, then pre-pubescent, came home from school in a foul mood and screamed, “Where the hell is food?”  And Mom, in that exaggeratedly placating way she had* in the face of a tantrum from any of the six cranky little monsters she called her children, said, “Well, there’s haaaam, and turrrrkey?”

Sugarplum’s getting some turrrrkey today.  The vet called and said she was doing well, no puking for three days, no fever for two, and she’s beginning to show interest in eating on her own, but they weren’t sure what to feed her that she’d really be interested in.  So I suggested baby-food turkey, which is what I feed the beasties when they’ve got diarrhea or what have you.  And it’s one of the few things (along with tuna juice) that they all, finicky as the cats are, go for.  So much so that when one’s sick, they all eat that so there’s no stealing of the sick one’s food.

And once she starts eating on her own, they want to send her home.  I may have to rearrange some furniture so she can get on the bed post-surgically, but I’d like to have her back, even if I have to feed her baby food for a while.

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* She also did this when she answered the phone.  It was kind of a marvel how she answered the phone the same exact way no matter what was going on when it rang: “Helllloo-oo.”  I mean, she could be screaming at us all one second, and then answering the phone with the same “Hellloo-oo” she used when she was feeling frisky.  Compartmentalization.