There Are No Cats in America

My sister adopted a cat about a year and a half ago named Gypsy, the geriatric one-toothed wonder. Meghan and Ronnie had a beloved cat years ago that ran away, so Meghan decided that it would be safer to get an old cat that, as she put it, couldn't run away and break her heart. The problem with getting a really old cat, besides the possibility of it dying and breaking your heart, is that most old cats have expensive medical problems. Sure enough, Gypsy's previous owner had neglected Gypsy's teeth, and Meghan and Ronnie had to spend nearly a thousand dollars getting all but one of her rotted teeth pulled.

Gypsy's one tooth has made mousing a bit difficult. She caught a mouse last year, but as she was unable to eat it, she tried to lick it to death. Ronnie found her and the mouse an hour later, both exhausted and taking naps next to each other. The mouse was soaking wet. Instead of giving the mouse back to Gypsy, Ronnie dropped it off outside of town.

Last night, while supposedly napping on the back of the couch, Gypsy lept onto the ground and caught another mouse. Both animals were put in the laundry room, where Gypsy could lick the mouse to her heart's content. Unfortunately, the mouse got away and is loose in the house again, albeit much cleaner than it was yesterday.

The irony about the clean mouse situation is that Gypsy no longer cleans herself; I don't think she possesses the energy or flexibility required for the task. Her new nickname is Dusty- you can guess where it came from. Since she tends to get upset when we brush her or cut off clumps of matted fur, we tried lint rolling her filth off yesterday, with disappointing results.