Guess who's back?

You might think it was me, getting back into the blogging swing of things. But I'm actually thinking of someone else.

A lot has happened since last we typed. I got an oil change. I got transferred into a different department at work. My best friend in the world decided that this year, she would do the half marathon with me - and we made it in under three and a half hours. I turned 30. Mr. W and I moved in together.

That last bit is what we call "burying the lede" in journalism.

So far, cohabitation has been really nice. I like having someone to cook for. He likes having a balcony where he can sit outside and watch chipmunks and deer. (There were deer a couple weeks ago. In Hyde Park. *shrug* Who knows? Don't look a gift deer in the mouth, I suppose.)

But Mr. W is allergic to cats. I mean, super allergic. His arms swell up if he carries a cat owner's box of books-to-sell into the used bookstore where he works. And my cat is not exactly hypoallergenic. If anything, she's hyper-allergenic.

So I had to find a home for Thursday. I advertised on Craigslist, I put the word out on Facebook and Twitter, and I found someone. She was perfect. She had two cats but wanted three. When I told her Thursday still had her claws, instead of the standard "Ugh, really?" I got a "Good - both my cats have their claws, and it's important that they're all equal in that way." When I brought her over and despaired at how she cowered in her carrier and hissed at the other cats, the response was, "Yes, she'll do that for a while."

I left, heartened.

That was six weeks ago. On Sunday, I got a call. "I'm sorry - she's not coping. I think you need to come and pick her up."

Thursday had spent the entire six weeks hiding in the attic, emerging in secret for food and litter-box use - her new owner had only seen her once. Late at night, she could hear her two cats fighting with the newcomer, and every morning, she found a puddle of cat pee on her kitchen floor. (Whether this was Thursday herself or the other cats - unable to access their own litter boxes at night without being jumped by the attic-dweller - we don't know.)

Mr. W, as I've said, is intensely allergic. But he said, "Bring her home. We'll figure it out." (Mr. W is kind of extraordinary sometimes.)

So the next day after work, I went over, prepared for a long evening of coaxing her out of her hiding place. I brought cat toys, tuna, and a book in case I needed to just sit there for a while. I was offered pizza for dinner if I needed it.

I shone my flashlight into the crawl space and called out, "Thursday, it's me." And she came to me immediately, jumped into my lap and started purring. She was my sweet kitty again.

For the moment, she's living in my office, and we're doing everything we can to limit Mr. W's exposure to dander. I have a set of clothes that I put on when I come in to see her. When I leave, I go to the bathroom, change clothes, and wash my arms and face. I bought a pricey grooming brush to keep her from shedding so much.

And it's working, for now. Maybe it'll work forever. Maybe the dander will eventually creep through the rest of the house and cause a reaction in Mr. W, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

For now - guess who's back?

This girl.

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