Meet Percy

Percy is all cat. In this picture, he’s about to attempt to kill a bird or two. Percy chooses if he wants you to pet him or not. He will not understand that tables and counters are off limits. He’s a great combination of ornery, rambunctious, and loving. Percy is not my cat, but he’s my son’s, who has moved back home (at least some of the time). So guess who has to take care of Percy?

I wouldn’t mind so much, but Ming, my cat, hates Percy. I’ve worked with them for months, but Ming isn’t having it. I had to take Ming to the vet because Ming stopped using the litter box. He’s peed on floors, bedding, blankets, clothes, boxes, and people. $104 later, Ming comes home with a diagnosis of sever anxiety. The doctor recommends separating them permanently. So now Percy is an outside cat except at night when I close him off in a bedroom.

I don’t need this added work. Son’s mother (where Son stays most of the time) doesn’t do pets. Our homeowners association doesn’t allow outdoor cats, but I’m knowingly breaking that rule. My backyard sanctuary is disrupted as now I’ve introduced to it a murderous predator who kills for sport.

Taking an adult cat to the humane society means certain death for Percy. Even if I could find a new home, I hate to do that to Son, who will eventually (there’s no telling when) find a home and want his cat.

Ming is us ingredients the litter box again now that he has no interaction with Percy. Now I have a new morning buddy during my patio time.

All I can say about all of this is Son had better put me in a really nice nursing home when it’s my time.