Every conversation is pretty much the same.
This goes on as long as I want. Tommy loves to talk.
Typically, water is involved. He sits on the vanity at the edge of the sink, neck extended like a duck or a goose and rubs his head on the faucet, waiting for me to turn it on. When I do, he sticks his head under the stream and moves it around making sure he douses his entire head. Then he starts to drink.
Or he sits in the tub, erect posture, alert disposition. Looking at me, then the tap, then back at me. “Mao? Mao? Meow?.” Same deal: I turn it on, Tommy waterboards himself then settles in for a refreshing drink.
Tommy has a lot of charisma.
Our conversations used to bug Susan. Or maybe ‘bemuse’ is a better word. Whatever, they always elicited an eyeroll. But now she does it too. “Meow?” He’s hard to resist.
Last night, after dinner, still alert, purring, bumping his head against the faucet, he opened his mouth but nothing came out. Well, almost nothing. A whisper, a croak. Tommy lost his voice. He doesn’t seem to notice. The conversation goes on, but his half is mostly silent.
This can be a big deal or almost no problem at all. Possible diagnoses from Dr. Google, DVM run the gamut. A mild respiratory infection to a cancerous growth. My mind goes all the way. Saturday morning, four-thirty, I’m up, can’t sleep. Worried. The veterinarian office doesn’t open for hours. I flip open my laptop and wait.
* Right, Mao. Struggled with that one. How would you spell it?