My 19-year-old cat, Piper, was caught in a door-to-door check by animal control on Saturday. I was asked to produce her license and proof of a rabies vaccination, but managed to plead ignorance and insanity due to moving here recently. Lost papers, blah, blah....slipped her collar, blah...blah...busy taking care of my mother, blah, blah. Of course, I managed to throw in that I was a Humane Society volunteer last year.
Piper does not go outside. Never has, really. The smallest hummingbird terrifies her. We've tried to coax her onto the patio, but it would probably require tranquilizers. She likes the couch. And her bed under the sink in the laundry room. Occasionally, she forgets the daughters have grown up and left home and she organizes herself into a hunt for them. This usually leaves her stranded on the stairs meowing like a maniac.
So today I took her to the vet for a rabies vaccine. She did well on her journey into the great wide world and appears to be suffering no adverse effects even though the chart the vet showed me translates her age into human years as 92. Next week sometime between my mom's trips to the gastroenterologist and Miracle Ear, I'll take the rabies certificate downtown and buy Piper a license. It would be great though if I could remember who the vet was that spayed her. She needs a certificate for that, too--or the price of the license will be doubled. This move to Margaritaville was Piper's fourth move, and she's had a hard time keeping track of her paperwork. Which makes me remember how many times I misplaced my final decree of divorce. I think at one point one of the daughters offered to attach it to a lanyard. Which makes me think that maybe divorce decrees could be turned into little tags and worn on collars--or maybe charm bracelets.
photo by Sam Kunz
