Frida, my sick kitty, peed all over my copious pile of pillows and on my mattress, right about where my head would rest for some sweet sleep, of which i had none last night because I was pulling off sheets and stuffing everything that was soiled into garbage bags to take to the cleaners later. I also noticed her doing the poop scoot across the pristine white pillowtop…for a second, I loved my mattress more than my poor, stinky, sick kitty. Health and beauty pat our hands and flatter us. Illness scrapes with a small sharp pinky nail, causing bad tempers, making us smaller and smaller.
Frida was diagnosed with chronic renal failure last week. If you are a kitty owner, you know that this is sad and serious.
Mike told me this morning he heard on NPR a story describing a certain KGB torture–making a person stand in one position for days on end. Apparently this would cause all sorts of systemic ailments in some victims, including kidney failure.
He suggested that maybe that's why Frida was having kidney problems– inactivity. Now I feel guilty because i haven't been around as much as i should to play with her. I tried to get her to play yesterday but she is still not feeling well and her legs are wobbly. She moves around like a rickety marionette managed by a bad puppeteer.
Mike also wondered that maybe that's the reason why Soomu (the other kitty) has been hissing at Frida and growling at her. "Maybe she's trying to get her to move around," he suggested.
Tough kitty love, he says.
I think Mike was a cat in a former life. A big, King Cat.
