Pierogi has tentatively settled into her new home with us. The chore of naming her was nothing when compared to the exertion of enticing her to eat. I was able to coax her to chow down on some Purina Friskies an hour ago.
I am not a Friskies enthusiast. I believe cats belong on a sensible diet (such as Science Diet) rather than filling their bellies with cheap food. A few years worth of veterinary clinic work gave me a healthy appreciation for the quality of a cat’s diet. Soft foods lead to rotten teach and liver diseases while the cheaper hard foods provide “filler” for the belly and have little nutritional value. If you question the quality of your cat’s food you need only look to the litter box. A healthy cat’s feces do not have a strong or vile odor. Diet is everything.
Pierogi seemed to enjoy the break of her four-day fast. Gandhi would have been proud. Had she not eaten today, we would have had no other option but to return her to the adoption group. I simply could not find any physical reason as to why she would not eat (a rudimentary exam, as I do not have access to labs or x-rays) and my apprehension was that she found her new environment purely too stressful given her fellow housemates (another cat and five dogs.)
The animals get along fine at this point. We had only a momentarily tense moment in the upstairs hallway that very first night (the other cat, Lady of Utmost Bitchiness, abhors having to share her humans. Tough.)
Other updates (I shall not get around to answering email today):
TFMM is still in Paris. He rang through on his cell last weekend but I was asleep. I am eager to hear all about his trip.
Pauline is on the mend and back at work at the pub. I simply adore her email. She is such a witty woman. I have published a few here (after editing out anything that might be too personal) as her humor sparkles.
Spider, of all people, emailed me from work. Apparently Ox failed his treadmill stress test and has an angiogram on Friday. Spider is beside herself with worry. As Better Half (and I) just went through one, she called on me for some comfort. My heart goes out to her, the poor dear. She is only thirty-two and this is a tender age for a wife to be when her husband is facing something that can be potentially life altering. I reassured her at great length.
Gumby’s Child passed her driving test with flying colours. This takes a great burden off Gumby’s shoulders as well carving a large dent in her budget – teenagers and car insurance rates are never a healthy mix. Gumby’s Child is a bright and responsible young lady so I do not have much anxiety at the thought of her tooling down the road in her beat up old Mazda.