Day 52: Undisputed Mistress of the House, Skunk is ten years old, arthritic and deaf as a stone, but is still a kitten at heart when the mood strikes her. We play a game called "Sitting on the cat." She walks in front of me, deliberately making spirals until I am almost dizzy, and then flattens out on the floor to wait for me to drop to my knees and squeeze her between them. Once I'm "sitting on the cat," my weight resting on her hindquarters, she sinks even lower, spreading out like a pat of butter as I stroke her from her head to the center of her back. If I try to get up before she's had enough, she follows me around and nips me on the leg.
Her deafness came on rather suddenly as a result of medication she was given for an ear infection, and for six weeks or more, she suffered from a deep depression to the extent that I was afraid I was losing her. Now she's learned to respond to hand signs, but she still doesn't understand why she can't hear herself meow. Formerly, her voice was soft and sweet. Now it would peel paint. She tries to assure herself that she's being heard, just like a human who is losing their hearing speaks more loudly.
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