Maggie is up in years. She's almost 13.
In dog years, that's old.
In people years, she should be getting some kind of social security check that I could dip into. The only thing is, with her being a cat, it would be kind of hard to forge her signature and cash it at Wal-mart.
"Um, yes, Customer Service Person, that paw print is totally mine."
In addition to her usual drama, Maggie has pretty much given up on effective grooming. I say effective because she still tries, bless her heart. She licks and licks and rubs her face with her paw. Now, in her old age, she just licks her long fur coat into a matted mess.
She has become that little old lady who sits in front of you in church. The one who always makes the coconut cake every year at homecoming. The one who still wears lipstick and blush, Avon circa 1982. The one who carefully styles her hair but doesn't realize that the back of it still looks like she slept on it.
God love her.
That's my cat.
So now I'm having to comb or clip out the knots in Maggie's coat. You could say I'm her weekly beauty shop appointment.
I draw the line at driving her to the bank.