So our nasty hateful granny cat is home! And if you'll check out the pictures below, you can see that she has reclaimed her throne beneath the bed and has also regained her appetite. Beatrice is a right foul little git. I've had her since I was 20. I picked her out of the litter before her eyes were even open and the day I took her home she fit in the palm of my hand and I cried. For the next year we were each others only companions. She is my familiar and an extension of my soul. Once, my mama visited a psychic (Angela Moore- there's a link in my good stuff column) and when mama asked about me, Angela said I had a cat with a terrible disposition and that she had been with me through several lives. John said he's pretty sure one of those lives involved me and Bea swinging from the end of a rope. Which, as it turns out, is pretty ironic, because they did hang 5 women in Salem on my date of birth in 1692. What the hell am I rambling about? Dunno. Point is, Bea's home.
John and I grabbed a few groceries earlier. I wore Nikes and by the time I hobbled back to the car I was ready to gnaw my foot off. Came home and cleaned. Picked up Bea. Baked cookies for the folks at the vet hospital because they've been extra good to us, ate left over potato soup and more than my share of cookies and here I am now. Again.