The cat is out of the bag

I’m not even sure how to interpret what happened here. About two years ago, my mom’s beloved cat died. Suddenly. It was terrible. But my husband came up with a genius solution. We moved our two cats in with Mom so she could have companions, our cats could stop running from our dogs, and my husband could experience some allergy relief (he learned of his cat allergy about 10 years into cat ownership). So for two years, almost, Mom has looked after two cats, fed two cats, scooped litter for two cats, cuddled with two cats, and generally obsessed about the two cats. Just a few weeks ago, we learned the senior kitty had developed oral cancer and we euthanized her. Mom was stressed and sad, but handled it fairly well. She talked about wanting a new cat to keep the remaining cat company. Not going to happen, but I just didn’t say much. So just the other day, I went to visit, and she said: So this cat gets to live with me now? Yes, I said, he’s all settled in, has his food here, his litter box. He feels very much at home. “Oh, good,” she said. A few minutes later, we were walking to the dining room, and Mom stopped at the receptionist’s desk to report: “Guess what? I have a new cat!” She called again to confirm the situation: This laid back cat will live with her from now on, right? Right.

It is as if, to recover from one cat’s death, she wiped the cat slate completely clean. This is one of those cases in which Alzheimer’s is giving my mom a break.

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