It has been getting harder and harder to keep the luridly blue “Elizabethan collar” on Miss Agatha; it’s secured, like a drawstring skirt, with a little lace, and can’t be made stranglingly tight of course, so I sometimes find her gimping along with a forepaw thrust through it — the effect is halfway between a tutu and a toga — and a couple of times she has backed her way right out of it.
This morning I found it in the litter pan. I’ve rarely been sent a clearer message.
The scar is only a pinpoint of scab away from being completely and cleanly healed. I guess we’re done here. Torvald will be so relieved.