Dependents

Kimber is 10 months old. She smells like dryer sheets, and cries when she realizes she’s alone in a room. She wears a collar with a little bell on it, and we hear it ring all night long. She feels safe in the little cat carrier by the stairs. Kimber knows she is our daughter.

Elvis is three and a half. He sleeps on the bed in between S and me. He knows when I’m awake. If I open my eyes he will immediately start ramming his head in my face. It’s his way of saying “Scratch my head human! Scratch my head now!” It usually works.

Our son is a complete momma’s boy. That’s fitting though, since S found him in the middle of the street when he was no more than two weeks old. Elvis often sleeps with one paw on my face. His momma gets a face full of licks when she picks him up, but for me he will just touch his nose to my nose, or just breathe in my ear while he rubs his furry cheek against mine. He knows I do not like kisses. Elvis does not like the little carrier by the stairs. When S moved here Elvis spent three days in a carrier. It was warm when we put him in it. He was in the middle of a blizzard when we took him out of it. For a cat from New Orleans, snow clearly marks the end of the world.

We are waiting for a call from the vet. She was supposed to call yesterday. Elvis has been wheezing and coughing. We think he may have asthma. It’s not the end of the world. It just breaks my heart to see him wheezing.

Last year the cat my parents feed was hit by a car. What was left of his tail became infected. My brother urged them to take him to the vet. My brothers and I all live in different states from my parents, so there’s no way for us to intervene. “No, we’ll pray for him; he’ll be fine.”

I think I’ll call Elvis’ doctor now.