Home.
We shut Henry into the spare bedroom with some food and a litter box. He cries and cries and cries. At 2 a.m., I relent and move him and all his paraphernalia into our bedroom. At four a.m., I kick my husband with the universally understood stop snoring jab to the kneecaps. But hubbie doesn’t stop. It’s a chain saw in here. I kick him again, closer to the groin. He rolls over. The snoring continues.
It takes me about twenty minutes to realize that Henry is the one snoring like a grown man.
Did I mention my mother-in-law has lost most of her hearing ages ago?
My kitties sit outside the shut door, mewing. I think they’re saying, you okay in there? You want us to call 911? Have you lost your mind? I sit inside, unable to sleep. My bedroom reeks of obese cat, kitty litter, Tuna Delight Kitty Yum, and kitty farts.
There is a strand of kitty snot slung over Henry’s head like a jaunty scarf. I will later learn these are called “shoelaces” by delighted vets who are eager to take my money which I will be eager to give for a cure for whatever ails Henry.
But that night, I know deep in my heart, that whatever ails Henry will be with us for quite some time.