Our fluffy daughter Marcy, as you may recall, sank into a deep depression when we first brought Miss Skye home. No longer the primary tenant of my lap, she was devastated. She rarely moved, slept in the bathtub, and poured shots of whiskey in her Meow Mix when she thought I wasn’t looking. When Skylar would cry, Marcy would shoot me a look as if to say, “You replaced me with THIS, you stupid, stupid woman?!” Then would melodramatically drop her head on the ground. Again.
Well, time heals all emotionally wounded kitties, as they say. Marcy actually seems to enjoy Skye now, following us around the house and joining us in bed, where she often gives Skye’s head an approving sniff. This means A LOT coming from an anal-retentive cat who bathes herself, oh, eighty-six times a day and even covers her brother’s poop with litter when he fails to do so adequately. Again.
However, now that Skye’s getting a hang of this whole reaching-and-grabbing thing…? I suspect this blossoming friendship is going to end faster than I can say, “Run, Marcy, run!” Oh well. It’s not like Marcy really NEEDS her tail, anyway.