We have other pets in the house apart from the dog. Two, to be precise, both cats. It’s fortunate that I found out my city has a legal limit of three pets per household, because we love animals and would rapidly be overrun with them otherwise. One of the cats, The Siamese, is a recent addition (post-Departed); the other, The Striped Cat, I’ve had for about ten years.

When I got Striped, I was looking for a declawed cat to keep my declawed Black Cat company. He was older, and had always had a sister, but she had died and he seemed very lonely.

I still remember the cat I wanted to adopt. She was a declawed grey cat called Blue. I think she was part Russian Blue, and she was so, so sweet. A gentle girl. I found her on Petfinder and fell in love with her picture; I drove to the Woodinville PetSmart to see her and learned that a) she was already claimed, and b) since I was a renter, I needed my landlord’s written approval before they would allow me to adopt.

I said a sad goodbye and good luck to Blue, and then went to my apartment manager with the forms. She happened to notice that I’d never paid the pet deposit for the cat I already had; I explained that it had been waived by the prior manager when I moved in, but she said that was not done and of course, I did not have anything in writing.

As it happened, though, she had a declawed cat of her own that she was trying to find a home for – her boyfriend didn’t like cats, she said. She would waive the pet fee for both cats – if I took her cat. It seemed like an okay deal, but I was really stuck. If I said no, I got to pay the pet deposit for the Black Cat, who would probably remain lonely since she wasn’t likely to sign the form.

So I took the Striped Cat, sight unseen, even though I’ve never been partial to striped cats.

She had pretty eyes.

On Sunday, I sleep late again. In the middle of the night, he wakes and asks to be let out, and he’s still there when I get up and start making my coffee. While it drips, I check on him in the yard.

He accepts the head scratch and belly rub, and follows me inside.

He drinks his water and then looks at me, expectantly. There’s kibble in the dish; it’s been there two days.

I put some in my hand and hold it for him, a few bits at a time. He eats it and then looks at me.

His eyes aren’t rolling. His head still tilts to the side, but his eyes look like they can focus.

Clearly he can focus, because what he wants in more kibble, from my hand.

I sit next to him on the floor and feed him slowly.

An hour later, The Child appears; she wants french toast. When I start cooking, the dog wanders over and lies down in middle of the kitchen. I move around him and he remains there, insistently.

He wants his french toast, too.

I make one for him, and cut it into pieces. I give him one piece, and put the rest in his dish across the room. He walks over to get it.

He’s wobbly, but he finds his way.

When he’s done he sits in the kitchen, content.

We are both content.