Sunday mornings

Now that Arthur has to eat and be medicated on a strict schedule, I have to go to bed and get up on a strict schedule. This isn't so bad during the week when I have to get up for work early, but it's making my usual lazy-morning weekends pretty annoying, especially because bed time tends to be later on weekends due to concerts or social activities, etc. YAWN. So sleepy! I've been trying to think of ways to make this early morning weekend time meaningful and thought that I should use it to write here again. Maybe something more than just depressing cat updates, but probably a lot of that as well.

So here I am, Sunday morning at 6:30, trying to coax the little furball into eating all his high-quality wet food by lacing it with Fancy Feast...which he carefully sniffs out and removes separately. He takes almost an hour to eat half a can of wet food, and he should probably be eating 3/4 of a can twice a day, but I just can't babysit him for that long. We're doing what we can (pun intended). Considering that I was fearing that he would soon be leaving us in one of my last posts from December, 2013 (over two years ago!), I've got to say that he is doing amazingly well. It has been a lot of work (and has cost a lot of money), but I'm so proud of him for being so strong.

Things are going pretty well for him so far with the insulin therapy and all the other meds, even though his legs feel terrible. Right now, after eating his long, drawn-out meal, he is lying on the mat in front of his food bowl and purring so loudly I can hear him across the (small) kitchen. He seems to feel better in the morning than the afternoon and evening. He responds to our comings and goings and blinks at us to tell us he loves us. But his legs. I am really concerned about his legs. I just got a new bottle of Dasuquin, so hopefully that will help a bit.

In other news, Neil had a wind ensemble concert at BoCo last night which I skipped to visit with a friend from IU and to meet a new friend who went to both Oberlin and IU and now lives blocks away from where I work. It's such a small world. We had drinking chocolate at LA Burdick in Harvard Square. YUM.

So much has happened in the last two years that it's impossible to catch up, even though it seems like time has passed so quickly. Suffice it to say: we are still here. The cats are still here. Our apartment is a disgusting mess. We spend most of our time trying to fit everything we need to do into to the small amount of spare time we have. We wash dishes way more often than we would like and it takes waaaay too long. I spend far too much time on the train and in a small, windowless, basement office. I worry about my cat. I worry about my health. I turned 40. I turned 41. Entire blog posts could be written detailing how I feel about that. The short version is that I suddenly find myself reflecting on how fleeting life actually is, and I am frustrated that I often feel like I'm wasting my time. Like there's something I should be doing. Something I should be giving. Something more meaningful than the day-in-day-out routine that traps me because I need to make a living somehow. Sometimes I think this feeling of insignificance and wasted time/life comes from not having any kids, or not having a creative career that really feeds my soul, or not having the money I need to live the life I would like to live. Then I reverse, and think that those thoughts are crazy because my life is pretty great and I am comparing things to the ideal life that we are fed through TV and movies, to the life I thought I would have when I was a kid (largely based on owning a house that looks like something out of a Pottery Barn catalog), and to our friend's carefully curated virtual lives on Facebook.

These are the things I think about Sunday mornings while I wait for my cat to eat. Going back to bed wouldn't solve any of these problems, but it sure would feel good.