Fickle

I'm a dog person, I suppose, but I also love cats, especially our current cat, Prindle. She is big and soft and is spotted in a way that recalls a Holstein, but with beautiful downy grey fur instead of black. Always affectionate, during the worst of my illness she became a constant companion, pressing herself against me during the chills, fevers and horrible wakeful paralyzed stasis of chemo. I became very attached to her, and she to me. 

This is a measure of how great this cat is: She actually uses a scratching post. She never pees on the carpet. She comes reasonably reliably when called. She once was named after a Hindu deity and lived a hippie life eating rats in a barn, but when presented with a fireplace and Iams, she never turned back, somewhat like a rich kid secretly delighted when his parents insist he leave the commune.

So, anyway, great cat.

Mr. and Mrs. Sick Guy, my parents, are currently visiting, and they also love cats, especially great ones. In fact, they love cats so much that my mother has launched a concerted and possibly Chardonnay-fueled attempt to win over Prindle's affections. It turns out that, with frequent applications of tuna juice and carefully stacked (mashed is far too vulgar for our classy cat) small-can cat food, you can indeed entice Prindle to spend a lot of time with you and sit on your lap.

I have no problems with this, honest. 

But perhaps my trash-talking about the golden days coming to an end when the folks fly home actually reached an audience. 

Today, I walked upstairs to my bed and didn't find Prindle in her usual place by my pillow. Instead, there was a small, wizened poop resting on the sheets.