Baby Punkin

Fourteen years ago, in November of 1994, Punkin was a hard-headed bit of orange fluff.

I had no way of knowing what she would become to me.

I am saddened to see her now, reduced to a tired, old cat.

Driven by the terrible thirst of her disease, she wanders the house, going from water bowl to fountain to sink. I tempt her with newly-drawn water or with fresh-fallen snow but that isn't what she seeks. Nothing we can offer seems to be precisely what she craves, though she will sip a little before moving on in her quest. She gets ample fluids under her skin every evening, keeping her hydrated. That satisfies her for a while.