Agatha goes to the vet tomorrow, just a day or so after discovering Mommy’s Chair
and after several uproarious days of killing all the cat toys in the house (several times apiece), the Cute Engineer’s gym shoes, and my hair. The hair was an enormous hit earlier this evening. She held me prisoner by it for most of a quarter hour on the entryway rug, for variation occasionally releasing it to shove a small moist nose into my fingertips and wrestle my forearm. She is the most adorable thing on the planet.
I have no idea how I will stand being without her for thirty hours. They will let her come home Thursday afternoon.
I have broken out a collapsible wire mesh dog crate that I once bought from a lesbian couple living up the street from my old house, who owned a renegade Basset hound. When the Basset outgrew it they let it go to me in a yard sale; it came in handy when we moved, for Apricat and Patricia Twinkle of blessed memory. Bassets are one of the few dog breeds that don’t terrify me — they’re low enough to the ground that they couldn’t jump up to clamp their jaws on my arm even if they wanted to, something I expect most dogs to attempt — and the ladies were nice, so I still think of the crate as a Thing Of Good Vibes for Agatha to recuperate in over the next couple days when I am not able to watch her.
I will be a nervous wreck till Thursday. Y’all are warned.