the thing about the Kitchen Cat

I'm starting to worry about the ancient, terrifying beast that lurks beneath the edge of my table cloth, waiting to chomp firmly upon the buttocks of any unsuspecting diner. That monster is the smallest adult cat, with soft fur, a tiny pink nose, and delicate grey marks that trail into kohl lines around her wide, innocent-looking green eyes. I'm, obviously speaking of the Kitchen Cat.

For those who don't know, the Kitchen Cat was inherited from my former grandma-in-law. Grandma and I bonded over our mutual love for bad-tempered, ornery, seemingly misbehaved cats. A long time ago, I had a cat that was often refered to as P.M.S Kitty From Hell or just Church. He was a nightmare and my best friend. He used to sit on the back of the toilet and smile at male visitors.

Her cat, who she called "Princess" in a falsetto Okie twang, introduced herself to my ex's uncle by dropping on his head out of a closet in the hall. Grandma had marks on her arms where Princess would occasionally get irritated with grooming, or messing about, or random petting...

So when Grandma was admitted to a nursing home with Alzheimer's disease, I, naturally took on her cat. My primary reason was that my former in-laws had decided to have the cat put down. Their reasoning was that "there is something wrong with that cat. She'll never be normal."

Well, all cats are "not normal." It's a natural part of being a cat. But Princess had been a faithful companion, determined caregiver, and the only being who seemed to notice that anything was really, really wrong with Grandma. For that, she deserved a chance at life and love and a happy retirement.

When she first lived with me, she moved into a kitchen cabinet and flatly refused to come out. After a year or so, she finally moved out of the cabinet to occupy the rest of the kitchen. And the kitchen is where she lived. When she moved here with me, she moved into the kitchen, and that is where she lives.

Princess, whose name has been changed to something much more appropriate, has proven me right, over and over. In the wee hours of the morning, when I can't sleep, she will sit in my lap at the kitchen table and purr. The rest of the day, she grumps, growls and hisses at everone who comes near.

But she is beginning to fail. She is old. Grandma told me that Princess was 7 years old in 1999. She continued to say Princess was 7 years old until her own death in 2005. Yeah.

Her fur has taken on old cat softness, and her joints are losing their flexibilty. She is crosser than ever on cold or rainy days, when she aches, and, I think, when she misses Grandma most. She is drinking more water, and spending more time in the litterbox. I would take her in for tests, but she would likely die if she were gone from home comforts overnight. She hates strangers, and I won't put that stress on her ancient heart. I have lowered the protein in her diet, and I keep her well-watered. I try to give her warm, comfy places to sleep, but she insists on the kitchen chairs (at least they're padded, and the tablecloth keeps off most of the drafts) or the windowsill.

At this point, I think her problems are all related to age. So all I can do is love her, from a safe distance, so the teeth can't get to my ankles, give her all the care I can, and try to make her life as pleasant as possible for as long as I have with her. I wish cats lived longer...