We have now come to the last of my pets. This fuzzy cat is named Bronte. She came to us from one of my wife's colleagues, who found her, she said, at a farmhouse in Ohio. The poor little cat weighed less than four pounds, was full of tangles & mats, & had a worrying cough, which her rescuer told us was "just hairballs."
After we had her for a couple of weeks, she was still lethargic & not terribly affectionate, & I noticed that, though she kaff-kaffed all the time, I never once saw a hairball (despite her mess of hair). So we took her to a vet & discovered she had asthma. Once she had regular treatment, she transformed into a wholly different cat - playful, sweet to her brother Bolan, noisy, demanding. As is typical with asthma, the sickness affects her depending on the weather, & it took several attempts - & suffering through some utterly inept Appalachian vets - to get her the proper meds, & to maintain her health.
The wife says it's been six months since an asthma attack. We should have a sign in the house. But spring is around the corner. Now, the currently ten-pound Bronte is asking me to feed her. Asking me? Demanding me!
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