Here Kitty, Kitty

Our house is a geriatric home for all critters, big and small. We don't put our old animals down; we put them on a liquid diet, give them a lap blanket and sign them up for BINGO.
     I've made no secret about the fact that I WILL chew Elvis' food if need be and that I am saving one my kidneys for him, just in case. But don't get me started about Elvis. This is about Cassie.

Now before you start hatin' on me for trying to give my cat away let me go on the record as saying that I am not the kind of person who gives her animals away for no apparent good reason. Rabies are not even a good reason.
 

You see I am an animal lover. Some people may have even called me a crazy dog lady once or twice, which I won't deny.  I kinda love my cat too but call me a crazy cat lady and I will hiss at you and scratch your freakin' eyeballs out. Don't you do it!

Here's another thing that you may not know about me:  I am not the type to ask for help. Even if my arm were stuck in the garbage disposal up to my elbow I just always kinda figure, I got this, no help needed, I can chew my own arm off and get my own Band-aid. 
     But for now we have a date with the Colorado Blood Cancer Institute in Denver, so I've had to buck up and ask someone to flip the switch on the old disposal, if you know what I mean.

Over the past week or so conversations with my Well Meaning Friends (WMF) have went like this:

WMF:  If there is anything I can do, just let me know.
ME:     Really, thank you. Seriously? Do you mean that?
WMF: Yes, just let me know. Anything.
ME:     Well yes, since you asked there is something you
             can do....you can take my cat.

This is where WMF will take a step back and say: 
          a)    I'm sorry I can't, I already have two cats and
                 they don't get along with other cats.
          b)    I'm sorry, I'm allergic to cats.
          c)    I'm sorry, my dog hates cats, he'd probably eat it.
          d)    I'm sorry, I can't have pets where I live.
          e)    All of the above.

And these people love me and I love them back, but whaaaaat? Nobody wants my old matted up, she-devil-cat?

So meet Cassie.
I think the old gal is about 154 years old in cat years. She came to us back in the early 1990's, a tiny fur-ball of a stray. I fed her with an eye dropper and put her in my briefcase and took her to work with me.
     She grew into a mouse killing machine and for years I had the pleasure *coughbullshitcough* of waking up to a little "present" from her. Yes she loves me.

In her heyday she was fifteen pounds of Jack Russell-eating-hell cat. Most dogs who visited our home left with one of her claws as a souvenir, embedded firmly in their butt-sniffing noses. Years later those same dogs still have the scars to prove that they met Cassie and to this day they still tip their hats when they walk past her. An occasional tail twitch from her is the only confirmation that she may have even acknowledged their existence.

This is Butch when he was a baby, circa 1996. 

Don't you just LOVE my Dalmatian looking sweater?

Cassie may be the master cat of cool but she is also a grudge holder. She once waited years, I'm telling you years to get even with Butch, our Rottweiler, for his puppy terrorizing ways. On the day she found him pinned to the deck because his collar had gotten hung up on a board, she opened up a can of cat-whoop-ass. I found her perched squarely on all 150 pounds of Butch, shredding his ears while giving him a deep tissue massage at the same time. Butch was howling like a baby basset hound.

Now the poor old gal is on her last wobbly leg and I would never, never, think of disrupting her happy home if it weren't medically necessary.

Cassie and Paisley ~ 2011

This story does have a happy ending.  I sweetened the deal by offering to furnish the food, treats and cat litter.  My sassy, spy, beautiful, eighty-something-year-old Aunt Lil stepped up to the cat-food plate and offered to let Cassie live with her.
     I hope I didn't forget to mention to her that the 5 AM yowling is part of the package and that Cassie is a sore loser at BINGO so she'd better watch her back. Unless it needs a scratchin', that is.

Call me Aunt Lil, you still want her, right?

Cassie's next victim ~ Aunt Lil 2007~ ♥ ya Aunt Lil!

A killer mussel recipe coming up next...stay tuned to The Sauce!