January 1, 2022

                                                                                                                                                    Ozzie has table privileges


Written before Ozzie escaped on Thanksgiving night. 

He has not returned.

I spoil our cat Ozzie.  Ollie (our first cat) died from kidney disease when he was only eight-years-old and the loss was so devastating that I go out of my way to indulge Ozzie.      

My sweet boy gets to eat a dish of dry kibbles and a dish of meaty wet food—yes, he has two food bowls.  And he gets to eat whenever he wants, which is throughout the day.  If I'm in the kitchen he waits by his tray.  He's got me pegged.  I fill both of them for him before I have a bite to eat.

When he's finished, he gets to watch the birds.  In the summer, I open the kitchen door for him and Ozzie lies against the screen, soaking in the sun.  He enjoys the variety of the birds that come to the feeders:  cardinals, wrens, woodpeckers, goldfinches, doves, chickadees, titmice, sometimes a rose-breasted grosbeak and hummingbirds.  If he's lucky, he gets to say hello to Putty, a stray cat we care for who frequents the deck for food.

In the mornings, Ozzie usually lies behind the computer screen.  I slide the keyboard to the front edge of the desk so he has plenty of room to stretch out and listen to bird-singing Youtube videos as I work.  

After lunch, Ozzie gets to nap on the guest room bed.  I give him a chin and belly rub before his eyelids get heavy. 

Then late afternoon when he awakens, he gets a dish of wet food—served in bed.

At supper time and before we have dinner, Ozzie gets two more dishes of food.  Then he jumps to the kitchen table and he gets to lounge on a place mat at the end of the table.  He's not reprimanded.  My husband and I know it's useless.  Most of the time, he naps unless he is intrigued by the food on our plates.

During the evening when I'm watching television or reading, he gets to make muffins on my lap. I don't move until he's tuckered out. 

After that, we may rough house.  He gets to swat at my arm.  He gets to gently bite my hand and clench it in his mouth.  When it's bedtime, he gets to curl up by my feet or on my pillow.

The only things he doesn't get to do is walk across the stove and sneak outside, both for reasons of safety.  And he doesn't get to body slam against a closed door—it's uncalled for and annoying.  But overall, Ozzie Mrvos has it made.  He gets lots of love and attention.  From I can tell, he shows his gratitude by butting his head against my hand.     

Without a doubt, I pamper Ozzie.  He gets table privileges.  He gets to watch birds, live or on video and so much more.  Is he spoiled?  Perhaps.  Do I mind?  Not one bit.  

Anything for my sweet boy. 

Ozzie me manque