Last year St Francis and I travelled back and forth to the vets never knowing if each time was the last time. Steroid injections and antibiotics seemed the only answer but one year on and Rufus is completely drug free.
Yes, he’s twenty-one, crotchety, arthritic and possibly suffering from dementia but he is well and happy and still here!
Now that the sun is shining, he even ventures outdoors. St F’s neighbour set me to chopping down brambles and undergrowth in her garden to make it easier for Rufus to get over the fence and visit her. I do worry about his old bones when he lands on the other side but he staggers off with a determined gait. He always finds his way home too. Mind you, that’s because his food bowl is there – and boy, can that cat eat. He is costing a small fortune in Kitty Kat. He’s earned the right of food on demand and he milks it shamelessly. St F swears he forgets he’s been fed when he comes back for more ten minutes after scoffing a bowlful. If you don’t immediately jump to it when he announces his hunger, he’ll plop into your lap and bite your fingers. If you want to stay on the right side of him, it’s best to reach for the food tin as soon as you hear the rusty squawk of his meow or suffer a feline manicure.
Five years older than St F’s oldest child, Rufus has been a part of our little family for very nearly half of St F’s life and no one can imagine life without him – and luckily, we don’t have to yet.
Happy Birthday Rufus Doofus, may you have many, many more cos we love you
By the way, does anyone know how old he is in cat years?