Friday Cat Blogging

Henry.

Henry is on extraordinarily thin ice around here. Since we returned from vacation in early July, he’s been spraying the front door of our house every day [clarification: on the inside of the house], sometimes on multiple occasions. Though neutered at an appropriately young age, he’s gone through occasional marking phases his whole life; we’ve endured these patiently, cleaning up after him and — during a few longer periods — using artificial pheromones and even amitriptyline to chill his ass out. At fourteen years of age, it’s possible he’s simply losing his marbles. Or he might just have a thing for doors. Who knows? Physically, there appears to be nothing wrong with him, and our vet predicts he’ll live another five years.

If he doesn’t knock off the pissing, though, he might not make it until next week. I’m trying to find a new home for him, based on the absurd theory that he’s simply grown tired of living with two dogs, and three humans, and his sister. For some reason, though, my friends and colleagues are unwilling to adopt a cat with a history of drenching doors with urine. I can’t imagine dumping him at the humane society — a no-kill shelter, but still — and I couldn’t bring myself to snuff him for this. I’d wish for a stroke or aneurysm to knock him out quickly, but I’m sort of angling for one of those myself, and I don’t want to blow all my negative karma on a cat. My wife, meantime, suggests we lather him in fish oil before sending him off to meet the neighborhood bears.

If any LGM readers are capable of speaking telepathically to cats, please tell my boy to knock this off.