Beech Tree News Network

This week, I learned something important: You can lead a cat to an igloo, but you can’t make him sleep there.  Let me explain.

My cat, Figaro, is fast approaching sixteen years of age.  Given his agedness, 112 in people years, I thought he might enjoy a cushier place to sleep, hence the furry cat igloo I ordered online just for him.  To my surprise and disappointment, he will have nothing to do with it, choosing instead to lie on the much harder surface along the back of our couch.  I even put one of Garey’s previously worn socks inside the cushy little bed in order to coax him inside, but he just investigated with a disinterested look then walked away.  

I have reached the conclusion that Figgie, like many of his aged compatriots, is in denial.  If you could observe his daily routine, you would surely agree.  He jumps in and out through the space provided by the raised screen in my utility room door, like he is still a young whippersnapper, and he’s going to break a hip if he continues to do so.  He also climbs from the back of my writing chair in the BBC room, to the end table beside it, and maneuvers his way between the books, my glass of water, and my coffee mug—it usually sits on an electric warmer that could easily burn his little paws with the slightest misstep—until he finds space enough to hop to the futon, where he climbs in under whatever blanket happens to be there, and takes a nap.  

Knowing that you start to lose teeth as you age, I decided to buy Figgie some cat food that would be easier on his gums, although I’ll have to admit his incisors seem to still be in good working order, as evidenced by the two puncture marks in my right thumb.  That’s another thing, he seems to be getting crankier, one of the predominant markers of old age.  I mean, just because I tease him, and rub his fur backwards, that is no reason to bite a person.

Figgie eats the softer cat food I bought for him, although he still supplements his diet with take-out food he finds in the back yard.  He’s pretty stealthy about it, but every once in a while, he coughs up mole hair or bird feathers, so I know what’s going on.  It’s common for the aged not to particularly want to eat what’s good for them, but I remind him from time to time that he’s not a youngster anymore.  

When Garey and I watch TV in the evenings, Figgie lies on the back of the couch behind Garey’s head.  As we have grown older, we’ve had to adjust the volume on the TV accordingly.  At times, the racket gets too much for him.  You know how it is with the aged, what they consider to be noise tends to get on their nerves.  When that happens, Fig raises his head and gives us the stink eye.  He would give us a condescending look with both eyes, but he has a cataract on one eye.  He uses his one good eye effectively, however, because we immediately lower the volume.  You’d think at his age, he wouldn’t even be able to hear the TV.  Come to think of it, he probably doesn’t.  He probably feels the vibration of the bass tones vibrating across the floor and up into the structural support of the couch where he is lying.  If he would sleep in that blasted igloo I bought him—for a pretty penny, I might add—he wouldn’t even experience that problem!  I know, I know, I need to be understanding.  After all, he is a lot older than I am.

Recently, I visited my stepmom.  It was her 86th birthday.  She told me that my brother was bugging her about drinking more water.  My stepmom is very healthy for a person in their eighties, and I told her she had taken care of herself pretty well for this long, and she knows, better than my brother knows, how much water she needs.  On the same line of thinking, I’ve told Garey’s mom, Aggie, who is ninety years old, that she knows when she feels like getting out and walking around, better than Garey’s sister who bugs her about her need for exercise all the time.   I’m going to be at the place, sooner rather than later, where those around me will probably start telling me what’s best for me, and I’m not going to like it one bit.  I guess, I’d better back off from my helpful suggestions to Figaro about what is best for him.  More than likely, he’ll outlive me, cause old age ain’t for that pussycat.