September 3 is Smokey Day, the annual celebration of the day I finally couldn’t stand listening to this stray cry outside my bedroom window all night and asked the neighbor who was feeding him if it was OK if he came to live with me (it was). It was a mutually beneficial arrangement–I needed a friend and and he needed to sleep indoors. He’s turned out to be a nice cat–stronger than you’d expect an 8-lb cat to be, and grumpy in his old age, but nice. I’ve always assumed he used to live with an older person and got dumped after they died; he will sit quietly on you or next to you for hours.
Unfortunately, Smokey is not here this evening; when I woke up this morning the bed and I were covered in blood. He claws at his ears sometimes when they itch and I thought that’s all it was, but we went to the vet who found a pretty deep cut in his ear under the scabbing, and kept him overnight to suture him up first thing in the morning (he has to be knocked out; he tried to kill the vet tech when she tried to touch his ear). He’ll get the stitches out in two weeks when he gets his official vet exam for emigrating.
So, Smokey Day kind of sucks this year.
Moving right along with getting rid of stuff and piling up stuff to be packed next week, at least.