So, it’s getting cold at night and the mornings are nippy–looks like it’s sweater time, right?
Squish is getting entirely too old and sensible for Mom-wear, but ZoomBoy still treasures his sweater and the hat and mitt (yes, one, we don’t know where the other one is) that go with it.
So this morning he put on all the Mom-wear because we were taking the cat to the vet on his way to school this morning.
Dewey just had a comprehensive and some vaccinations. He wasn’t happy about it, but he went, and on the way from the vet’s, ZoomBoy started talking about Dewey and how he worried just a little bit, because on the first day of school this year, he left three cats and came home just in time to watch the vet put down Gordie.
He got… upset.
He started to cry, worrying about Dewey, about his sweet, chubby, stupid Maine Coon cat, who just kicked back and judged things and lived to eat rather than ate to live.
I had to hold him for a couple of minutes in the front of the car, and finally he was ready to get out. He stuck his head in the window and said, “I love you, bye bye,” before he did, because I told my kids that “I love you, bye bye” was the only control we had over life or death. We could let the people we loved know that we loved them before we parted. And hope for the best.
Anyway, e stopped to get a water from the back of the minivan, and while he was there I watched a car coming up the street behind us.
“Car!” I called out before he shut the hatch, and then looked in the side mirror just in time to watch him almost step in front of the fucking car.
He didn’t even see it, but my heart was in my throat and my eternal gratitude goes out to whoever was driving and saw that neon green sweater and thought, “Hey, this kid is probably flaky as piecrust,” and slowed the hell down.
I told ZoomBoy this when I went to pick him up, and he was instantly contrite. “Oh, I did! I’m sorry Mom. Didn’t mean to worry you!”
“Just… you know! You worry about Dewey crossing the street–how do you think I feel about YOU!!!”
This got me another hug, and then I had to go pick up the stupid cat.
The vet loves this cat by the way. They ask about Geoffie–which I think is hysterical, because she’s THAT pet–but the whole office was like, “Aw… Dewey. He’s great. Just sits there and chills. Doesn’t even blink when we prod his bod, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “He’s our honey baby sweetie face–always has been.”
Anyway–the one thing they told us was that he seemed to be short on tartar. “We don’t know what you’re doing to keep his teeth clean, but keep it up.”
“We feed him kibble,” I said. “A WHOLE lot of kibble.”
“Well, maybe not so much. He is a little chubby.”
“Mmm… not gonna change that,” I tell them honestly, and they let it be.
But I do have to tell you that as I was hefting his cat carrier into the car, me and Honey Baby Sweetie Face had a few words.
“You know, cat, if you’re going to keep getting fatter, maybe we should put you on a leash for vet trips.”
“Meow,” he said, as if to remind me that he was, indeed, a cat and a leash was just crazy talk.
“Fine.”
I wrestled the carrier into the car and brought him home.
“Here you are, ZoomBoy. Here’s your Meep. Now do me a favor and keep both of you out of the street, okay?”
“Okay Mom. Sorry!”
Whatever. I’d been emotionally exhausted by my boy and his cat–it was time for me to settle down for my nap.
