Rascal

Whenever I return from a trip, I must stop at the grocery store before going home to buy roasted chicken.  Not for me, but for Rascal.  The cat expresses his outrage when I come in the door.  He tells me he plans on packing his bags and leaving this awful house forever. When I start cutting him slices of that juicy meat he settles down.  He wouldn't want to leave on an empty stomach.

Once he has a few morsels, he tries to remember why he is angry.  He insists on a stroll out on the deck. Meanwhile, I cut up some more pieces and wave them around, getting that lovely poultry smell out to him.  He comes back in and eats some more.  My transgressions recede in his mind.

A little while later, while I am at the computer catching up on e-mail, he shows up and leaps on my lap and begins to purr.  I am home and all is right in the feline world.

Rascal is eighteen years old now.  He is getting a little bony around the hips and his tummy sags, but other than that, he's in good health.

I checked his records last night and found out he is behind on his inoculations. The problem is that we no longer have a veterinarian here in Seymour.  At a minimum, we will have to drive fifteen miles to get to the closest small animal clinic.  Neither Gary nor I relish that long a drive with continuing half-Siamese yowls coming from the back seat.  Does he really need to be inoculated against rabies when he never even gets off the back deck?  These days, he sits there in the sun until the day grows chilly, then he retreats into the house.  Soon the snow will fly and he won't even go that far.  

Gary and I will make a decision when he returns from Laura Lake. If a trip to the vet does happen, I expect roasted chicken will be required.