SHARPENING HER CLAWS ON GOD'S SOFA

A co-worker gave me a little kitten almost fourteen years ago to replace a cat of mine who had recently had to be put down.

I wanted a black short-hair, and got a tortoise-shell long-hair. They had named her Lucky since the mother had moved with the kittens and left this one behind, and the family did not find her for a couple of days (lucky to be alive).

While she was pretty reclusive most of the time, there were times her personality would shine. Like any girl, Lucky loved shoes and handbags (she would burrow into my shoes-couldn't have smelled good, and loved digging into my friend Lisa's handbag).

Lucky also had a thing for jewelry, as a chain my sister gave me often went missing, to be found in the same hiding place where Lucky hid plastic bottle caps and those plastic rings that come off of the milk bottle.

She'd started losing weight rapidly last year, and the night my mother died last August, I had made up my mind to have Lucky put down before I flew back for the service. The next day she was playing like a kitten with Rocky, the other cat.

Two weeks ago, Lucky was in a bad way again. I had a vet come to the house and she looked good when he examined her, although he confirmed with my guess that her kidneys were failing, and pointed out a growth in her stomach that he suspected was cancer (considering the weight loss), but did not recommend doing anything as it would not change the inevitable. He agreed that she did not appear to be suffering, and did not think it was yet time to consider putting her down.

A couple of days after Dr. Martin's visit, she started to lose a step again. Lucky refused food all day Friday, not coming out of the cubbyhole in the scratching post (that was never used since I have a couch).

Yesterday, I asked had Lucky put down. She was a couple of months shy of fourteen, and I think I gave her a good home.

For you cat owners, I cannot say enough about having the vet come to the house. Neither the visit nor the euthanasia was much more expensive than a vet's office, but the cat is in familiar surroundings. My cats freaked every time I took them to the vet, to the point that I stopped about three or four years ago.

So what does all this have to do with music? Not a thing. Except this blog is partly Rocky's, and now he's an only cat-but seems to like that.