You like cats?

Remind me why you won't let the girls outside, will you?
? It's not good for them. They can get hit by cars, get into fights with other animals, get fleas and ticks, run away, all kinds of awful things.

The girls are so institutionalized accustomed to being indoors that they won't leave the house even if I hold the door open for them.
 
The girls aren't declawed, Leggiecrite.

I had a rescue cat that was declawed by its previous owner, but he died several years ago. He was my favorite. :crybaby:

Make a note of the date so you have something to say if you're ever asked when you last confessed, just in case.


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We had one like that too. Very sweet cat but he had some “issues”. We blame it on the declawing.
My cat had those "issues" too. The vet swore it wasn't because of declawing but I'm not so sure. Over time I was able to train him to do the right thing in the right place. lol
 
My cat had those "issues" too. The vet swore it wasn't because of declawing but I'm not so sure. Over time I was able to train him to do the right thing in the right place. lol
We never could but found ways to work around it.
He died a very peaceful and painless death- kidney failure.
Same way my dad went.
Sleep more and more and finally don’t wake up.
But it was painful for us to see it. Took about a day and a half.
 
We never could but found ways to work around it.
He died a very peaceful and painless death- kidney failure.
Same way my dad went.
Sleep more and more and finally don’t wake up.
But it was painful for us to see it. Took about a day and a half.
I understand that completely. Watching my baby fail was one of the most painful things that ever happened, because I was helpless to save him. Thinking about it can still make me cry.
 
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We put our cat on a diet so he stole the kids’ food​



Last spring my husband returned from the vet with a grave expression while Woody, our four-year-old British shorthair, shook off the indignation of a journey in his cat carrier. Woody was not ill, my husband reassured me; nor had he attacked the vet. He was, however, officially “chubby”.

“The vet,” my husband said, “has prescribed a diet.”

We were advised to reduce Woody’s food by a third and cut out treats entirely. This would surely be added to a list of recent ills we had committed against him, the most grievous of which had been procreation. On the two occasions we had brought home small, wailing human beings, Woody had sniffed them and turned to us with a look of abject disgust.

The diet began. “I’m sorry, Woods,” we would say, saving half a tin of food for later. “It’s for your own good.” Presented with dry food for breakfast, Woody stared at us in bewilderment. It was the face of a man who had ordered a croissant and been presented with a cereal bar.

For a few weeks it seemed things were going rather well. Woody was looking leaner, albeit furious; he no longer deigned to sleep in our bed. It must have been around this time, stewing on his cat tree, that he hatched his plan. If we would not provide him with food worthy of his station, he would have to take it.

Even better: he would take it from the slower, more vulnerable members of the household.

He would take it from the children.

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So began his campaign of terror. I remember a time when we would put food out on the counter and simply leave the room, safe in the knowledge that it would be there when we returned. Not any more. The butter was sampled and dented. A wheel of brie was decimated in minutes. Woody took a very, very small bite from every single slice of a loaf of bread. Only vegetables, it seemed, were safe.

The toddler’s tendency for distraction made him and his friends an easy target.

Six months after the vet’s indictment we went back. Expectations were low. Sure enough, Woody hadn’t lost weight.

In response Woody committed his most serious theft yet. The toddler had just sat down for his morning pancake when he announced he needed a wee. In his haste my husband failed to hide the pancake in a cupboard. When they returned the pancake had disappeared. Woody sat on the table, unrepentant. It was, of course, the final pancake in the packet. After quite some tears the toddler decided he would accept a crumpet and forgive Woody.

But toddlers do not forget. “Woody snatched my pancake,” he said — to us, to grandparents, to strangers in the supermarket — for several weeks afterwards.

Woody has been summoned to the vet in January — a time of year when nobody really wishes to be weighed — and so the stakes remain high.




@christiefan915
 
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