Molly the Cat

It slipped my mind, then I was reminded that I have to feed Molly, the diabetic cat, from the 17th to the 21st of December. He (it took awhile to discover she was a he) is not a kitten. I think the cat is over ten years old. At this stage he gets a sht of insulin before his morning and evening chow.

What that means is that I drive up the mountain and shoot up a cat twice a day. This ought to be entertaining; more for the cat than for me, I suspect. Keeps me off the streets. With luck the cat will survive until his real adults return.

Whenever people take off, leaving their pets in my care, I worry that they'll pick that time to kick the bucket. Then it will be all my fault. I do avoid caring for pets I don't like. Believe it or not, some animals are jerks. If I have to care for jerk animals, I would feel double guilty if they kick because I secretly wished for their demise long before I had to play nanny.

Molly is a likable creature so I worry more about being up to the task. His owners do this every day--how hard can it be? With luck I won't accidentally give myself the shot. Too bad it isn't something more glamorous, like morphine.

Really, though, Molly probably has it tough enough being saddled with a girl name. He's made up for it by standing off rattlesnakes and avoiding coyotes. Even so, it has to hurt.