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Before moving to the condo in my hip, new neighborhood, I agonized over what to do about my cat. Lily had spent 12 bucolic years lounging, mostly outside, in the sun-baked garden dirt. I gathered advice at pet stores about bringing her indoors. I bought a bunch of gear. Scratch pad, litter box, mouse toys. But the news was grim. Friends took me aside, and begged me not to do it. You’ll ruin her life, they said, and she’ll ruin yours. It was a wrenching decision, like Sophie’s choice. Do I take Lily with me, to live in hemmed in agony, or leave her (with the man who’d help raise her) in the tree-lined street she called home. I considered putting her on a leash, to walk around the new hood, which considering its denizens, wouldn’t be so weird. But I knew she’d hate it, and I didn’t have that much self esteem. (P.S. I visit Lily regularly and she seems to be thriving without me.)
Image from Coolness Graphed [1]