I enter my seventh year with Amelia the cat, her ninth or so. I have no idea why; never have I seen such an ugly and stinky cat. (In case you haven't heard, every day is Opposite Day at my house.) She hasn't noticed that she's aging. As far as she can tell, she's still a kitten. I wish I could give her play dates. She is terribly bored and pitifully eager to play, but I just don't have time anymore to give her as much kittyball as she desires.
(Kittyball is a fascinating sport. You take a number of little foam rubber balls about the size of ping pong balls but decorated to look like soccer balls. You kick the kittyball across the floor. The kitty either chases it, bats it back, pounces it or ignores it. Better still is arena kittyball. It requires a well-madeup bed. You throw the kittyball on the bed. She chases it like a maniac. Someday, I'll get it on video.)
Fortunately, the kitty brain is flexible and forgiving. She's up on the Kitty Condo watching some kind of Important Kitty Business out the back window. I guess I'll let her stay. I guess she'll let me stay. Another ten years or more if I'm lucky.
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