Wednesday, April 9, 2014

The cat in the room


The cat had a rough day on Sunday. We did, too, really, although nobody jabbed us with needles. It was the first really beautiful blue spring day and we spent it driving up and down Manhattan.


We Zipcarred him from Harlem to Cobble Hill (sob) to visit Dr Slade, who squeezed us in with very little notice. He's only there half the week. Dr Slade, that is.

The cat had upchucked twice in three days - highly unusual for him: he hasn't since before his fancy, reader-supported thyroid nuking treatment, last May. I had a doomed feeling, and wanted blood tests, whose results we are still awaiting (since the trip, the cat is in impeccable health. Of course).

Back at home he found the grass I had put on a stool in the sun. He is quite a long cat.

Then he fell into a deep sleep in the faux fur.


The upside of spending a little time in Cobble Hill was that Vince was able to charge up to Court Street to procure his favourite, garlic-stuffed olives (destined for martinis), as well as a delectable spindried chicken, which enveloped us in wonderful, herby smells, all the way back to Harlem.

Dinner that night was good. The cat woke up in time for it.

Of course.
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