It's a beautiful spring day in Stratford, but more snow is coming next week -- our usual equinoctial lake-effect storm. My daffodils will be in bloom by then, but they won't care. Daffs are tough.
Watson (cat) had his annual date with the vet last week. She prodded and poked him, remarked on his fine condition, winning personality and general air of confidence, but pointed out the nubbles on his lower spine that indicate encroaching arthritis -- "Is he jumping less?" Of course, the answer is yes. He still levitates with apparent ease to the kitchen counter, but not as often as he did in his younger days, and I can't remember the last time he flung himself straight up from the floor and into my arms.
Like many domestic cats, both Watson and Isobel have lost teeth to resorption disease, though they still have the full set of four fangs each. They are littermates nearly 11 years old, but Watson is showing more signs of age than Isobel does.
I have choir stuff to do -- the weekly email newsletter -- and the refrigerator is empty again. Heigh-ho, life goes on.