Getting Foo-tered

I saw the most beautiful butterfly the other day. It was the biggest butterfly I’ve ever seen. Black and shiny, it fluttered in a way that made me wish I had wings. And then Foo ate it. First he ate the wing. Then he ate its body and the other wing. Then he licked up all the pieces of the wing.

Alex’s cat, Foo, is a killer. Every time he comes over to visit, an animal loses its life.



Emily has gotten so lazy and inattentive to wildlife in her old age that my yard has become an animal sanctuary. A toad lives by my mailbox. A rabbit spends every evening in the front yard. Squirrels run the fence, and moles eat my irises. A few days ago, I saw an awesome blue lizard running across the porch. Emily was sleeping on the porch, and the lizard ran over her. She didn’t even blink.

Foo finds great solace in Emily’s company. When he gets to agitated at Alex’s house, Alex just brings Foo over for an afternoon, Foo plays with the old boxer and is happy. In the car, Foo screams unless he can cuddle up to Emily and sleep on her. I never imagined my hyperactive, super-interactive boxer would be a cat comforter and an animal enthusiast.

They both went to the vet today. Emily had the blood test I’ve been dreading. Around Christmas, the vet told me he thought Emily might have cancer. He sent me home with the ominous words, “Just have good holidays with her, and we’ll see you at the first of the year.” At the first of the year, there was no change and the seeds of hope that I would have another year with my old girl started to bloom. Today, he wanted to do a blood test just to make sure she isn’t diabetic and that everything else is okay. Alex kept saying, “poor kitty” because Foo was being neutered, but all I could think was, “I DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT THAT BLOOD TEST SAYS.”

As we picked up a groggy, hungry, neutered cat, a vet came out and showed me the results of the blood test. She’s normal. 100% normal. Healthy. Not diabetic. Good teeth. Good blood. No sign of infection, no sign of cancer. Younger than her years. And do you know what gets the credit? Sure, I feed her the right stuff, Alex and I walk her, and she is spoiled rotten. But part of the credit, said the vet, goes to that killer kitten. Somehow, this taker-of-life is also the giver-of-life.

I’m going to take a Claritin and quit griping about keeping Alex’s cat while he’s in Italy. Foo will probably clear the yard of wildlife, but Emily might squeeze in few extra months of calm life, entertained by that complaining, wandering, snuggling killer cat.