Hobbes Lives!

It’s against my long-standing blog policy to correctly name anyone in my house who’s not dead. But the orange cat isn’t in my house and I want you to get the graffiti right.

So, yes, big news. The orange cat is not dead! That motherfucker went to the vet and got blood drawn like a champ and his numbers are, in the vet’s words, “incredible.” No sign of any kidney problems, which is apparently remarkable in a cat his age. The vet was blown away that he’s never had any medical problems in his whole long life. And, indeed, this is the first time the Butcher and I could recall ever taking him to the vet for anything other than maintenance crap.

So, if it’s not physical… well, she’s not sure it’s not physical. She’s testing his blood for thyroid problems and she does think his arthritis probably sucks. But that can all be fixed with medication. Which, get this, you can just rub on the inside of his ear. No trying to shove fucking pills down his throat.

But she thinks he may be getting a little senile, he may just not be adjusting to not having the Butcher around, since he was primarily bonded to the Butcher, and being old and slow, he may be feeling overwhelmed by the other animals, especially the dog.

If only there were a pet-free house where his favorite person lives…

Oh, wait.

So, the orange cat lives at the Butcher’s house now. And we’re going to see how that goes. But judging by all the adorable Instagram photos, I think it’s going to be good for him.

I can’t tell you how relieved I am that he’s alive and that we could make an easy switch in his life that makes him happy.

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