How Time Flies

Today marks one year since I scooped up a smelly, flea-ridden, wormy, infected, emaciated, dehydrated, 1.2-pound, four-month-old, dying black puff of a kitten with a face sealed in mucous from behind an abandoned Brooklyn house and brought her home, where she lived in my bathroom for nine weeks while I assaulted her with food and meds ...

... trying not to infect Big Timmy, who lurked outside the bathroom door all those weeks.  Amazing.

Glenwood now weighs 8.4 pounds and is the sweetest, softest, most loving terrorist around.  She sticks to me like glue except at night, when she removes books from the shelves, takes art from the walls, uses edibles for hockey, and sweeps anything off a tabletop.  The pre-sleep ritual I undergo to protect my things continues to expand.  At around 5 am I usually lock her out of the bedroom for a break.  She meows her little face off while periodically jumping up and smashing the doorknob with her little paw.  She is a toddler.  A toddler-terrorist.  A toddler-terrorist with a squirrel tail.

While it would be poetic to report her 100% healthy, this ear infection persists.  She's still on oral and aural Baytril plus an ear wash, and I'm still digging out Q-Tip-fulls of goo twice a day.  Does it stop her?  Not for a nanosecond.  I adore her, and she appears to like me pretty well.  Or at least my shoes.