Four days into a five-day trip we took this week, Jim and I were having
severe Rosie and Cinder withdrawal pangs.  Curled up in a flower pot outside
the door to the motel where we stopped for that night was a disheveled
long-haired tabby cat.
I spoke to the cat, and he answered with a polite meow.
I could tell someone had groomed the cat, because there were no mats
evident, but he was very thin and I could see where his hipbones were.
At the front desk, I asked about the cat and offered some money to buy him
some good meals.
The woman smiled and told me that she lived on the premises and that he was
her cat.  His name is Gato (Spanish for cat). She said he was almost 18
years old and showing his age.  He gets eight meals a day of a special diet.
In fact, he had just been to the vet a couple of weeks ago to the tune of
$144.
I got the feeling that she was telling the truth and was quite relieved.
It just goes to show that things aren't always as they first appear.
When we got home, Cinder was waiting just inside the door. I could hear
Rosie calling me from behind the bedroom door. (We keep the door closed when
we are gone overnight because the ladies don't always get along.)
Although Rosie is about 7 years old, she has a tiny voice and she sounded
like a little kitten going mew mew for its mother.
It felt so good to hold her and hear her purr. She was like Velcro all
night.  I gave her an extra hug and asked her to send some of those purrs to
Gato.
Annie, who did not leave the cats alone, but hired a cat sitter to check on
them in our absence.