Hobie Cat is in the hospital. He ate the little rubber tip from the door stop and it jammed in his intestines. What is up with that? I mean, it couldn't have even tasted good. He's eaten some of my wallpaper, too. And I noticed the plastic jug of Purina Pro Plan cat food is missing half its label. He gets enough cat food, but the attraction to non-edible items is like a monkey on his back.
Tomorrow, if Hobie gets through the night after his surgery, I will take a second out on my house and bail him out. But, really, this is the last time. The next time he does this I'll have to give him a burial at sea, because my entire rainy-day fund is being depleted on this one event.
He knew I was a sucker that day I went to the pound. A plain little tabby kitten among some of the cutest kittens I'd ever seen stood alone while everyone fawned over the others. Families actually fought over the other kittens, jostling to hold them, but no one wanted the tabby. My heart melted and I picked him up and held him. His purr could have derailed a train, it was so loud, but he looked up into my eyes and extended his paws so they rested on either side of my chin. It was as if he said, "I've been waiting and waiting for you. I knew you'd come for me."
That was a year and a half ago. He remains the sweetest cat when he isn't eating bizarre things, and his purr still rocks the house. Am I foolish to spend the money for surgery? Probably. But while that money sits in the bank, how can I deny him? I need his purr, and we freely give each other love.