Cats getting along: is this a feline form of detente?

If you read this blog a year ago, you may recall that Mom brought home a big fluffy cat named Ophelia. Ophelia took an instant dislike to her new housemate, Creampuff. Creampuff tried to make friends but Ophelia wasn’t having any.

Ophelia got so stressed, she stopped eating. She got liver disease and Mom had to force-feed her for 5 long, miserable weeks. (The politically correct term is “assisted feeding,” but who needs to be politically correct when it comes to cats?)

A year later and we’re making some progress. Creampuff really wants a playmate, but at least they’re starting to talk. Dogs don’t have these problems, especially dogs like me. I love everybody. Who wouldn’t want a new live-in buddy? But I never claimed to understand cats in general and Ophelia makes a good case for establishing a Cat Mental Health Clinic somewhere. Of course, my mom Cathy adores Ophelia and thinks Ophelia is perfect.

“May be the best cat I ever had,” she says. “She’s so cute when she waddles.”

Yeah, right. If I waddled my rations would be cut back even more. But cats, says my mom, are supposed to be spoiled rotten. Ours certainly are.

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