Turn around bright eyes…

I gently stroked my hands down Blackie’s back, paying close attention to the prominence of her spine and how her hips sunk in. And I thought to myself, “Oh no, not again.”

Last year my clue had been how awkwardly she curled up to rest. I hadn’t noticed the weight loss until then. Black fluffy fur hides a multitude of sins and she prefers head scratches, not over all pets. This year was different. I knew the vet couldn’t offer much other than an appetite enhancing injection and a can of food Blackie hates. Plus I was still feeding the cats wet food that she liked.

I immediately separated a portion of each can for Blackie, microwaving it for 15 seconds so she could smell it better, adding a tiny bit of water so she could lap up more, and serving it in a different room. At the beginning she needed to be coaxed to eat. I had to carry her bowl and her to my room, often after searching out her hiding place. Then I’d have to follow her around the room with the bowl until she finally got tired of running and started to eat. Every time she startled she’d bolt from the bowl and needed to be coaxed back. And she startled at the smallest things, a slight foot movement could send her running.

She’s still skinny but she’s moved up to eating half a can now and is hurrying to the room to be fed. She’s also eating her whole meal, something she wasn’t doing even a few days ago. I’m so glad she’s turned around. She’s 12 years old but she’s still feisty and I’d like her to be here for years to come!

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The cutest excuses for an unmade bed ever!

This just happened…

Jeremy walked into my room to show me his new solar panel robot we got at Dollarama yesterday.

“I’ll read you the blog post I just wrote,” I told him as I flipped through our stats page. “I think you’ll only be the seventh to read it, not including me… unless some of the people who started on the home page also read it. But you’ll be no less than the seventh.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes and sat down. “Okay, fine, you can read it now,” he said once he was settled. I read him the blog.

“It was fine,” he said when I finished. “Good.”

Which is what he says in response to every blog post I’ve ever written. If I’m reading him a chapter I’ve just written, his answer changes slightly to “Fine” and “Good conversations.”

“Lenny suggested maybe creating a list of the good things and bad things about being trans and seeing if that would help you sort things out. Do you think it would be a help?”

He smiled. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Okay… so what would some good things be about being trans?”

He shrugged and stayed silent. I listened to the metaphorical crickets chirp for a few seconds.

“Okay… how about the bad things then?” I figured if he got some bad things out, we could work our way back to some good things.

Another shrug and more crickets.

“Hon, I’m getting the feeling you’re not trying,” I commented.

“Mom. I am thinking. You don’t know what’s in my head.”

“And yet you came up with nothing for either list. C’mon, not even bathrooms?” Considering how often he’s brought them up before, I figured that one would be a given. Once again he shrugged.

“I’m guessing when you said you’d be interested in doing that list, you didn’t mean right this second,” I said and Jeremy nodded.

I leaned over and rested my hand on his chest. “Jeremy, right here, right in your heart… deep down inside… when you listen to yourself, do you feel like a man?”

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“Okay… do you feel like a woman?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated.

I thought for a second. “Maybe you just don’t feel like either gender,” I mused.

“I don’t know,” he said sounding frustrated.

“You know what. I bet deep down inside you feel like… a cat.”

Jeremy snorted.

“Which is fine but if you start licking yourself, I’m expecting you to start using the kitty litter.”

“And I’m out of here,” he said after rolling his eyes.

This would be how we spend our Saturday nights. It’s barely 8pm here and we’re both in our pyjamas. Also, Jeremy just walked by dragging a glowing green Xbox controller by its cord, kind of like you’d walk a toy dog. Because it’s broken and because walking broken game controllers around the apartment is what everyone does.

So nothing’s been sorted out but I’m reasonably certain Jeremy is not a cat.

Jeremy’s hair…

I’ve been wanting to do a scrapbooking layout of Jeremy’s hair, featuring all the different colours he’s gone through over the past half year. This latest shade of purple is a different hue than the last and I figured I should get a shot of it while it’s still fresh.

Jeremy was underwhelmed by the thought of leaving his Minecraft game but went outside willingly. He walked a few steps ahead of me then stopped, still facing away from the camera.

“Umm, Jeremy, you need to face me,” I pointed out as I tugged on his shoulder.

He turned around, looking disappointed. “It’s not for the blog?” he asked.

“Sure, I’ll do a shot for the blog too,” I assured him.

So here it is, a photo of Jeremy’s purple hair. He’s holding one of our cats (the one he’s taught how to give hugs).

Jeremy's purple hair