She's been in the family longer than my daughter.
And I'd already had to give my dog away.
(Still can't even type that without crying).
Clearly because I wasn't already angst-riddled enough, one of my caring and supportive friends heaped a few more heebies on my jeebies by casually querying, "Aren't you sort of worried that there'll be a dead cat in the carrier when you get to London?"
Well, I am now!
But she made it.
We both did.
It's only recently that we've begun to have a near-terminal-velocity bumpy ride.
She's killing me.
Apparently it's a thing.
She's not sick.
She's not hungry.
She's not cold.
She had a hysterectomy 17 years ago, so it's not about calling the boys.
She's not even lonely.
She's just losing her marbles.
At regular intervals between midnight and 5:00am the bitch-cat-from-hell
finds her way into our midst and begins summoning her demon buddies for the ritual slaughtering of all humans in residence.
It's spine chilling.
I tried talking nicely to her.
I tried shouting at her.
I tried throwing everything from my bedside table at the wall.
So I switched to a more pro-active approach and left the radio on upstairs where she sleeps. BBC 2. Surely that would either bore her to sleep or engage her with its interesting interviews in soothing voices.
And it worked for one night.
Next I amped up the love, and left a night light on for her as well.
So far so good.
Some time between 2:00 and 3:00am, she does start to wind up the howlelujah, but then like a baby crying itself to sleep, she self-soothes.
I think she'd probably prefer that I left the TV on, but I fear the inevitable next step would be the expectation for me to stay up all night to explain the bits she missed while she was asleep.
It's a slippery slope.