I took 8-Ball to the vet last week for her annual shots, blood work and a much-needed haircut. The vet ran a few more tests than usual, after informing me that 8-Ball is now a “senior cat.”
Senior cat? 8-Ball? Wow. She’s no different than she was when my old roommate brought her home around four years ago. 8-Ball rarely moves, and there have been times when people have poked her to make sure she’s still alive because she has spent hours in the same spot. Needless to say, she’s not the most active animal.
According to the hospital records, 8-Ball was born in March 2001, meaning that she will be nine years old in March. But who knows how accurate that date is, since I was told when we first adopted her that she was found in the hallway of an apartment building in Jersey City.
My little ball of fur weighed in at 17 pounds and four ounces, so she is now off the weight-management food I’d been giving her and Trouble and on weight-loss food. Forgive me for being skeptical, but when the vet said 8-Ball would weigh 12 pounds the next time I brought her in for a checkup, I asked if that meant she was getting her legs cut off.
Still, while hearing the term “senior cat” rattled me a little bit, I’m not too concerned about 8-Ball. As I said, she is pretty much the same cat who arrived here about four years ago, give or take a surprise pile of cat droppings in the bathtub. She is still the sweetest, most affectionate cat of the three we have here, and she still wakes me up every morning, like clockwork, at 6:40, because she wants breakfast. She still wants no part of Skittles, the newest cat in our household, making noises straight out of the Gremlins movie, hissing and baring her teeth whenever the poor guy wants to play.
I know it’s not uncommon for cats to live past the age of 15, so I hope my senior cat and I have a lot more time left together, cold snouts in the ear at 6:40 a.m. and all. 8-Ball is a great cat.