Menopause not Drugs

Hello Humans,

I just read that libelous blog written by my tiger brother, Morris. While I would rather you not waste your time on such trash, you simply must read this garbage in order to understand my embarrassment and my anger. Here it is. Give it a quick skim; it’s not worth a full read.

Are you back? OK. As you can clearly see that orange moron accuses me of drug use and, um, having accidents. The embarrassing truth is that I have been having accidents. It’s unfortunate, but true. I refuse to lie about it. However, I do not use drugs. Yes, I do have a little catnip from time to time, but it is a harmless herb, not a drug. It’s not like I’m drinking the little stinky drinks like Mother does.

I wish Mother would make the air colder.
I wish Mother would make the air colder.

The reason I’m having accidents is because I am getting old. I’ve been trying to ignore the truth and keep up the façade of youth. That is why I sometimes just tear off running through the house like my tail is on fire, or try to wrestle my brother Andre even though he is larger and homicidal. I have been trying to maintain some semblance of kittenhood. Sadly, it is not to be. I am an old lady cat.

Like a lot of human women, my first clue was the devilish temperature increases known as hot flashes. They are miserable, aren’t they ladies? I try to find relief by lying on the cold tile, or staying near the air vent. I also drink a lot of water when it doesn’t stink of the large dog’s mouth. She is vile.

My next clue was my mood changes. I’ve become more secretive, and clingy. I hide in mother’s office and refuse to leave. I dive behind the couch or under the bed when I sense she is trying to shoo me out. I simply won’t stand for it. I need to be away from the dogs and this is the only way to do it.

Of course, my final sign was my, um accidents. I can’t seem to hold my bowels like I used to. When I have to go, it’s a sudden urge, like I have to release a beast from my behind or something. I just can’t wait until I get to the litter. I must squat wherever I am and push the feces from my body. Plus, I have arthritis in my toes. Have you ever walked on rocks? How about with arthritis?

Humans, thank you for bearing with me while I discuss such private things. I appreciate your kindness.  While I will try my best to remain close to a litter box at all times, I can’t promise there will be no more accidents. It’s a part of aging. If only there were Depend undergarments in my size.

Leave me alone!
Leave me alone!

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