Chili

My 8 year old cat, Chili, loves to eat stinky, fishy, canned cat food with a passion. She knows all the sounds involved: the snap of the lid coming off the plastic container, the clank of the saucer coming out of the cabinet, and the tapping of the spoon on the saucer when I place the food on her plate. And, of course, there's also the all-mighty sound of the opening of any can that makes her run to the kitchen in hopes that the can contains stinky, fishy cat food.

I confess that I've reproduced these sounds with the skill of a Hollywood foley artist when I've wanted to flush her out of hiding to put her in her carrier to go somewhere (she hates car rides). I feel guilty about that.

Chili isn't fed to excess, but unfortunately, she doesn't have a very good metabolism and she's a bit roly-poly. I thought she'd lost weight this past year and then at the vet's last month, we discovered she'd gained another half pound.

Once again, I got the talk about putting her on a prescription food to get her weight down. We've tried that before and she wouldn't eat it so I'm reluctant to get involved with buying a bunch of food and then having to find time to take it back.

But, I took the vet seriously and vowed to somehow deal with her diet issues after I returned from my holiday vacation.

Unfortunately, upon my return earlier this week, Chili seems to be having trouble walking and definitely having trouble jumping. Of course, I'm worried that it's a consequence of her being chubby and I'm feeling terrible about this. We have an appointment with the vet tomorrow to see what they can figure out.

She's sitting by me right now, getting cat hair all over my cloth briefcase but I don't care. Seeing her hobble around this week, I'm reminded that she won't be with me forever and it's very painful as I have completely given my heart to this little animal.

I can say without any hesitation that I have loved and treasured her every minute we've had -- she's truly a broken dish for me (see first post of this blog for explanation).

I picked her out at an animal shelter when she was about 8 weeks old and weighed about two pounds. She'd been found outside with her mother and sister. In the shelter she was quiet and still -- totally freaked out and I worried that she wouldn't have much personality. Boy, was I wrong. Named after a nail polish ("Deeply Chili"), she blossomed into loving, highly interactive goofball that once for the hell of it, jumped out at me with her whole body extended as I was rounding the corner to go to bed. As a kitten, for a long time, she slept right on top of my head.

I got her when I was still struggling with post-divorce life and she listened to my problems and once, when I was crying, she ran into me full-force and head-butted me as if to say, "Snap out of it!". How could I not fall head over heels in love with her?