Here’s the thing—life’s been more than a bit rocky for the past…oh…63 years. The last couple months, with my protonization, Coco’s radically declining health and passage to the Elysian Fields (four weeks ago tonight) and the vicious, violent gun-crazy madness of this beleaguered country, have been especially arduous.
I need my angel kitten but she’s gone. Yes, I have Ten, Jen and Oni’s brilliant love and support. I may be a weak-ass NF2-ed old broad but I’m an exceptionally fortunate one.
The point here—I’ve been looking at other, local, angel kittens online. My original thought was that just viewing the little beauties would ease my Coco grief. Yes, it did until this week’s massacre. I found myself in a conflagration of sorrow—crying on and off for two days straight. NOT pretty or fun. I dove back into the cat shelter sites and found one, who’d really struck my fancy, was still available for adoption.
I filled out the questionnaire and application to adopt Cupid and got an immediate reply. They’ve checked my references and I’ve been okayed to be his doormat.
The Humane Society’s page says that Cupid’s around nine years old and is:
Friendly, Affectionate, Gentle, Playful, Curious, Independent, Funny, Dignified, Loves kissesbalance, communication, warmth and self-expression.
So, Cupid’s got balance problems. HEY, so do I! Maybe he can join me in my PT exercises.
We meet him tomorrow at noon. IF he likes me, we’ll be able to able to bring him right home. I need to go in all chill—NOT manic and ultra-needy (PUH-LEEZE love me!). Jen has suggested we bring treats. Yes, I’m, without doubt, not above bribing cats for love.
Q from Star Trek: NG comes to mind.
All pets have a thousand names anyway. What they’re ultimately called on a daily basis often bears no resemblance to their official name. Coco was Precious Baby, Angel Butt, Evil Kitten, Pumpkin, Little Girl, etc.
And somehow I found the name Cupid overly sugary?